Scars
by holymfwickee
Summary: Post-CF. Peeta is rescued from the Capitol by Katniss and her band of rebels; however, after months of torture it is unknown if he will survive. It is also unknown if Katniss will survive if he doesn't. Majority written prior to the publication of MJ.
1. Scars

A/N: Let's pretend Katniss and her group of rebels is able to rescue Peeta from the Capitol. This is the reunion scene that follows. I imagine there will be quite a bit of fan fiction about such a situation, if there isn't already. Here's my little contribution.

Disclaimer: I don't own _The Hunger Game_ or _Catching Fire_.

**Scars**

Listen to him. Listen to him breathe. His breathing is shallow, his chest barely rises. It's a result of the quantity of drugs in his system. The poisons running through his bloodstream were injected during months of…torture. Months of sedatives and injections that damaged his nerves and toxins meant to destroy his mind. There is no other word for it. It was torture – an archaic and evil practice done in a brand new style.

The Capitol is certainly capable of other methods. Floggings and beatings are more rampant than ever. Then again, you'd be a lucky one to get out with a flogging. Shooting is far more popular. His case is handled differently. The Capitol isn't stupid. They are not going to destroy someone so beloved by the people; not when there is a possibility they can still use him. Not when there is a chance they could use him to get to me.

His cheeks are sunken, he is too thin, and a dark shadow hangs under his eyes, but that is how everyone appears during these unstable days. If not for the poison running through him, he'd be perfect.

And he is here. And he is breathing.

He twitches from time to time and a vein juts out of his neck. His hands fist the sheets as he endures the painful symptoms of withdrawal. Or perhaps he's having nightmares. I do not know which is worse. It makes me uncomfortable to watch. My throat goes dry and I'm forced to choke back tears when his jaw tightens, but I don't dare move. My back aches because I've been leaning forward for too long. My head aches from the stress. I curse myself. Who am I to even think of my own insignificant aches and pains?

I have been alone with him in the room for several minutes, nearly three-quarters of an hour. The only person to come in from time to time is a nurse practitioner rescued from District 11. She's the closest thing we have to a real doctor. She doesn't do much for him. Just looks over the needle poking into his arm and takes note that his brain is still functioning. For some reason, I don't trust her. She has been a faithful caregiver, but only minutes after Peeta arrived I overheard her saying, "If he doesn't go into a coma, he might have a chance." When she looks him over, it's like she expects him not to make it. So I can't trust her. Not when she's already given up on him.

Everyone else has the good sense to leave us alone. Not even Haymitch steps in. I am glad we are alone. That's how it has been for nearly two years now; the two of us against everything.

My head hangs down low; my chin nearly touches my chest. My neck aches too much for me to lift it and I consider settling it against the edge of his bed. I'm afraid if I allow myself that minimal amount of comfort I'll fall asleep. Before I can decide, I hear someone shuffling against the cold, concrete floor. Probably that damn nurse again. I don't want her touching him anymore.

"Katniss?"

It isn't the practitioner, it is my mother. She must have taken the next check-in time. I'm surprised the nurse allowed her to do it. My mother has been helping the wounded alongside the nurse, but usually the nurse just ignores my mother's suggestions. She doesn't approve of the homemade remedies of a woman from the Seam of District 12. However, we are extremely low on medical supplies now. She won't have much choice other than to use my mother's remedies soon.

"He's still fighting through the sedatives," she says softly, but I don't look up yet. "We hope he will sleep for only another hour or so." I appreciate her optimism. Already, she's a better healer than the nurse.

"I understand," I answer back.

"Come and get something to eat with me."

"No thank you."

"Can I bring you something?" she asks gently.

"I'm not hungry," I mutter back. As pleased as I am to not see the nurse, now I want my mother to leave. I'm not going to leave the room. I'm not going to allow him out of my sight. I've made that mistake before. My mother ignores my coldness and steps closer. She glances over his still form. She reads the blinking lights and listens to the beeping of the machines surrounding him, and somehow, she understands the meaning for them. I know they mean something, but I don't know what. I can only hope that because they have neither stopped beeping nor begun beeping rapidly, I shouldn't worry.

My mother pulls a small bunch of discolored, dried herbs from her pocket. The herbs are used as aromatherapy for nausea and combating sleepiness, but it's only effective on people who have a low tolerance for medication. Some people from the Seam could barely afford aspirin. He has been pumped with chemicals for several months. How will my mother's small plants do anything?

"Will it help?" I ask as she places the bundle on his chest so he will be able to inhale the scent.

"It won't hurt him," she promises. Several seconds pass as we both stare at his unchanging appearance. I need to see his eyes again. I need to know there is still life behind them. I make myself inhale and exhale in the same pattern as he does. I watch the bundle of herbs rise and fall and make the movement in my chest match his. It's a little uncomfortable; like I'm not filling my lungs up the whole way. How can he possibly be getting enough oxygen?

"Katniss, I'm worried about you," my mother says into the silence and I'm snapped from my staring. She hasn't been looking at him at all. She's been staring at me.

"Worried about me?" I question. She shouldn't be, not when there are so many people who need to be cared for.

"You've been in here for hours." Normally, I don't spend much time with the sick and wounded. That is Prim and my mother's place. I can't handle watching people suffer and I'm not much good in helping. In fact, this is the first time I've refused to leave. This situation is entirely different. I don't answer because I really don't know what she wants me to say. Where else would I be?

"Sweetheart, you are not to blame for this," she says as softly as she can while still sustaining her parental authority.

I shake my head roughly. I'm not going to listen to her. I don't want to. She's lying anyway.

"No one can hold you responsible for the actions of the Capitol. He understands this. I will not allow you to carry anymore guilt. You're going to make yourself ill." She pauses and shuts her eyes against tears. "I'm afraid for you."

She's completely right to be afraid. There is more than enough to go around that is worth being afraid of. However, in all the time since I've encountered truly dangerous situations – the Games, the Quell, and the escape to District 13 – she's never admitted her fears to me. Why now?

"What are you talking about?" I whisper. She sighs and rubs her hands over her face. No one has been sleeping well these past months. People have been caught stealing sleeping medication over a dozen times, which could only mean another dozen were successful – part of the reason we are running low on supplies. She moves around his bed and kneels beside me. Her knees crack as she reaches the floor. Gently, her soothing hands push my ratty hair back to reveal my weary face. Her eyes look me over and she runs her hands across the numerous scars on my face, as if her healing touch could wipe them away.

"Look at you, my little girl, my baby. They stole you away from me. Oh, how I prayed for your safety. I couldn't stop reciting the prayer. I was practically crazed with it. Your sister had to take care of me. My daughters have always been so much stronger than me," she confessed. No one with a child entered in the Hunger Games could be expected to handle it with any level of sanity. It had nothing to do with my mother's personality. She is here now, taking care of the wounded, and ushering the dying into the afterlife with dignity and comfort. She is stronger than she knows.

"I promised myself if I got you back, I would take care of you like a proper mother. I feared you might not be the same person."

I am not the same person. How could I be? There are two options when it comes to the Games. You either die or you live on to suffer the nightmares. I am lucky I did not turn to drinking like Haymitch. There is still time I suppose.

"I swore to God when you lived I would do everything in my power to heal you. And then a miracle happened; you were saved. I had you back. And then an even greater miracle, you somehow managed to be strong after the Games. You were affected, we all were, but you didn't need me. You grew into such a beautiful young woman despite the horrible things you witnessed. I was so proud of you and I never felt so blessed, because even with everything you went through, I still saw my little girl from time to time. I could still see the bright spirit of a girl coming from the worst of circumstances." Her hands move to rest on my lap and she sniffles as she holds back tears. My hair falls forward again and I can't see her face nor can she see mine. "But the trials didn't end with the Games. Then there was the Quell, and the uprisings. You had to endure so much more. I prayed and prayed…"

I didn't need the list. I wish she would get to the point, but I allow her to continue talking. She must have been keeping this inside since…since I volunteered to take Prim's place.

"But these past months, I look at you and I search for some semblance of my little girl. I don't see her anymore." Her fingers intertwine. That gesture, in combination with the fact that she's kneeling, creates an alarming picture to me. This is what she must have looked like the entire time I was in the Games.

I cover her folded hands with mine. "Mother, I still love you and Prim with everything I am. I'd do anything for you," I promise.

"I know. When it comes to Prim and me your heart could not be in a more noble and beautiful place. The same is true for all of our friends in the Seam, for all of District 12. But the way you look at _him_, during the Games and especially now, I am afraid you won't survive."

I glance over at him and attempt to grasp her words. I am only confused. "I don't understand what you're saying," I murmur.

"After he was captured, you were so broken. I never thought I would see you like that. When it comes to this boy, everything is so strained, everything is all or nothing. You were prepared to give your life for him during the Quell."

"He wanted to do the same for me."

"You still attach that feeling to him now. Katniss, what if he doesn't live? What if his mind is broken?" she asks without a hint of emotion. Her tears do not compromise her seriousness. I heard them say things like that from the hallway. Things they didn't try hard enough to hide. Because of all the drugs forced into him, it is likely his mind would be ruined. The words, "nothing but mush," came up. He probably wouldn't remember anything. There is a possibility he might lose control of his muscles or even be paralyzed. He'd be lucky if he retained his ability to speak.

"Stop!" I grunt through my tightened jaw. I couldn't stand to consider those possibilities, even if they were likely. Throughout my time sitting here, I tried hard to keep those thoughts out. It is either that, or lose my mind. The entire time he was at the Capitol, it felt like my chest had been cracked open. I believed I would have to learn how to live with a festering hole in my body, in my heart. But I experienced a miracle just like my mother. We had him back and the opening suddenly sealed shut. I could breathe again. I could think and move and hope again. But to imagine him so damaged, so destroyed, the crack would wretch open yet again. My heart could not take such abuse over and over.

"Will you be able to handle it? Can you handle it?"

I close my eyes so I don't have to see her frightened face. "Stop! Please, stop!" I command as I clench my hands together in fists.

"Your guilt is crippling your judgment," she chastises. Everyone knew I felt a tremendous amount of guilt over what had been inflicted upon him. How could I possibly feel differently? If I felt nothing, wouldn't that make me the most loathsome person in all of Panem? That would put me on the same pedestal as Snow. I nearly choke on the implication. My mother continues, "And I'm afraid if you don't distance yourself from it you'll miss out on what's right in front of you."

My eyes snap open and I lock them with her glistening eyes. "Wait…what? Are you talking about Gale?" I thought throughout her speech she was inferring that I wouldn't be able to handle it if Peeta is too sick, if he becomes a completely different person as a result of the torture. Given how poorly I handle caring for the sick it is an accurate judgment of my character. But that's not what she is trying to get at. She believes I am in love with Gale and I feel so guilty about Peeta I am preventing myself from considering him.

"You've known him your whole life. He loves you," she says quietly and strokes my cheek once.

I take no comfort in her touch. I'm too angry. "What do you want to happen? Do you want Peeta to die or be too sick so I'll throw myself at Gale?" I yell. My mother leans back on her heels, surprised at my anger.

"No! I want you to be happy. Promise me you'll let yourself be happy," she begs.

I breathe out irritably in response. I stand up and take a few steps away from both she and Peeta. I can't look at her. "We can't make promises like that anymore, Mother. We have no right." I cannot even fathom her attitude. How does she think of something as fleeting as happiness when it takes everything we have to simply stay alive?

I hear her knees crack again and I know she has moved from her kneeling position. I hear her footsteps as they are fading away, she's leaving the room. Hopefully, she realizes the ridiculousness of her request. While I am still facing away from her she calls out tenderly, "Peeta has always wanted your happiness, Katniss. Whatever that is."

I pause and revel in my anger for one more second, but when I turn around she's already gone. My chest aches and I collapse into the uncomfortable chair next to Peeta's bed. I am forced to rest my head on his mattress now. I feel so drained, so pathetic and useless as tears fall from my eyes. My mother is right about one thing, my relationship with Peeta is a strain. We are continually placed in the most impossible circumstances neither of us should have to endure. Him more than me. He is and will always be innocent and without corruption. His actions are only motivated by love.

My relationship with Peeta is also tainted with a string of failures. I wanted so desperately to keep him safe. Instead, he continued to lose things over and over. His leg, his life for a few awful minutes, and now his mind is in jeopardy. Not to mention the many times I broke his heart. His attachment to me is so ridiculous now it seems wrong. How could he have feelings for me when it only hurts him? It would be better if he hated me for failing him.

Suddenly my breath hitches and the wound in my chest opens a little bit. It's not because I fear for Peeta's body and mind, it's because I contemplated that he might hate me. I have had this thought before, but never this reaction. Since the Quell, and even before, his undying love for me had become a given. Everyone knew about it and I had theoretically accepted it, even if I didn't understand it. If he didn't love me, he could be happy. He could be safe. But that thought doesn't bring me the joy I expect. If he despises me and decides he no longer wants me, this hole will never heal. Then again, it may be just punishment. Peeta has suffered repeatedly as a result of loving me. It is only right that I should take on his suffering. I didn't deserve to be healed.

This is the guilt my mother was accusing me of, the guilt that is supposedly crippling my better judgment. I don't care anymore. I rarely had the chance to make my own decisions. Time and time again I was a pawn in some greater plot I didn't understand. After the Games, my life was being set up to marry Peeta. I had no choice in that matter. Things are different now. No one is threatening to kill me if I don't marry Peeta. People are threatening to kill me for lots of other reasons, but that is beside the point. My mother was only telling me to follow my heart. She believes my heart lies with Gale. Even if my guilt is affecting my decisions, at least they are _my_ decisions. At least it's _my_ guilt. Sometimes, the guilt is the only thing that reminds me I'm still alive. That Peeta is still alive.

Gale is a help. He is my best friend. There's no way I can forget that. I don't want to forget it. He began sleeping nearby after he heard me screaming in my sleep one night. We couldn't sleep in the same bed since we sleep on cots and there simply isn't room for more than one person. He would put his cot right up next to mine and hold my hand until I fell asleep. He does comfort me. He makes me smile despite the war that is going on throughout the country. I don't scream at night when he holds my hand, but the dreams don't stop, they change. I don't see rats gnaw my face or my family being ripped away. In fact, the dreams aren't really all that bad. They're normal. I dream of the Seam and District 12. I dream I'm hunting in the woods and checking the snares. One would think these dreams would make me happy, but they leave me feeling empty and just strange. Those dreams reflect something so familiar and could be confused with reality, but they're not reality. Those fantasies, as simple as they may be, are impossible.

Mentally and physically exhausted, I'm unable to lift my head from the bed. The mattress is thin and the linens are scratchy, but any kind of rest for my aching neck feels wonderful. I don't close my eyes, knowing if I do so I'll fall asleep. Sleeping is risky just now. They might move me, or him, and I can't be separated from him right now.

_Colors. Swirling colors. I so rarely see colors these days. Everything is grey and covered in dust and debris. Where are these colors coming from? Flowers? It takes me a moment to recognize the shapes. They are wildflowers. I'm in a field of wildflowers. In my woods. There is no place I feel a greater connection to. No place holds a more positive sentiment. I turn around several times. I'm searching for the person who brought me here. I want to know who I'm sharing this with. I can't see anyone, but I can feel them nearby. I know they're close. If only they would reach out to me…_

I hear a clumsy, muffled groan, and while I'm squinting, I realize I must have fallen asleep. It must not have been for very long or the nurse of my mother would have found me when they checked-in on Peeta.

_Peeta_…

Did he make the sound that woke me up? A shot of adrenaline runs up my spine and I stand up in an instant. I look him over frantically. He has not moved an inch. My eyes move back to his gaunt face and I stand perfectly still, listening hard. He does not make another sound, but he takes a deeper breath, one that causes his chest to expand and the bundle of herbs falls down his side and lands next to his arm.

His eyes open slowly. He even blinks slowly. I think he's about to go under again when his eyes flicker in my direction. He just stares at me. He doesn't smile. He doesn't move. His blue eyes, now dulled out and nearly lifeless, only stare.

"Peeta?" I whisper.

His forehead barely wrinkles as his eyebrows attempt to come together. His mouth stays in an unresponsive line. I still don't move. The expressionless way he stares at me is terrifying. It's not Peeta. Has he forgotten me? Has the Capitol been successful in burning away his memory of me? Maybe it would be better this way. It doesn't matter if this crack in my chest exists. He could finally be free of his attachment to me and maybe he would discover an existence where he isn't continually suffering.

"That's not right," he whispers. His voice is hoarse and I can barely make out his words. I can hardly tell that his lips move. But he did talk. It is difficult to keep the elation from playing across my face. He has not lost his ability to speak! The most beautiful thing about Peeta, his talent for words, has not been lost.

"What's not right?" I counter.

"You're never here. You're always in the jungle. You're always trapped," he mumbles. He can't open his mouth more than a quarter of an inch. His eyelids hang half-closed.

"Peeta," I begin slowly as I gulp down a growing lump in my throat. I am afraid of startling him. I keep my sentences short and to the point. He only needs to understand he is safe now, everything else can come later. "We're not in the Games. You're with me. You're not dreaming. I promise."

"I'm…I'm…a…you…" His breathing picks up and the machines begin to beep a little faster. I instantly panic and think of running to the nurse, but rushing out of the room might only upset him further or convince him that he's hallucinating. I step forward so my hips hit the edge of the bed and place my hands on the mattress.

"Shhh…be still," I command gently. My voice sounds like my mother's. "You're sick, but you're safe." The beeping begins to slow down and my heart rate slows along with it. It is stupid to tell him to be still; he can't move, even if he wants to. He's been just shy of comatose for months and his muscles have degraded. It will take him weeks to work up the strength to walk again, if he can walk again. I notice the hand closest to me is trembling as he attempts to exert himself. Slowly, I move my right hand underneath his and intertwine our fingers. I place my left hand on top and press gently. He doesn't have the strength to squeeze back, but he is trying. This fills me with hope for his recovery.

I look away from our hands and up at him. The dullness of his eyes has washed away. Even with the small amount of artificial fluorescent lighting coming from the hallway, they are shining miraculously. Tears fall down his cheeks.

"No, please don't," I gasp. If he cries, I won't be able to handle it. I know he doesn't have the strength to lift his arms so I disengage our hands and place mine against his cheeks. My thumbs wipe idly at his falling tears. They feel lukewarm because his skin is so hot. He's running a fever. I would have to get the nurse soon. "Please don't cry," I beg.

"Look at you. I never thought…I never believed I'd ever see you again." He still can't seem to muster any emotion on his face. The drugs have him too fatigued. It's a little off-putting to see him cry without even a wrinkle between his eyes. I'm a mess enough for the both of us.

"Me too," I mutter through a sob.

"They told me you were dead."

"I'm not," I inform him abruptly. In the past months, I needed to inform myself of this frequently. There are times, usually after waking up from a nightmare, when I have to convince myself I am still amongst the living. "Believe it or not, I'm alive."

He begins talking more and more and I don't know what to think. He's so delirious he might not remember this conversation later on. I'm too selfish to stop him. It feels too good to hear his voice again. "I didn't know what to believe. I knew I couldn't trust them. I think that's the only thing that kept me from going insane. I had to believe everything they said was a lie."

I couldn't hold back my sobs any longer. I am too exhausted and too relieved. I pull myself forward so our foreheads touch. My skin is chilled by the drafty room and his is overheating. My whole body shakes with tremors from my uncontrollable weeping. Our tears mix against my hands. My eyes squeeze shut and I regret it. What if he disappears from beneath my hands when I open my eyes? Things far more fantastical than that had happened in the past.

"You're so beautiful. Even when you cry, you're beautiful." His voice cuts through my sniffling.

My breath trembles as I exhale and I force my wet eyes open. I reluctantly push myself back and take a swipe at both of my dripping eyes. I nearly laugh. I must look terrible.

"Yes, well, same for you," I say. Breath escapes suddenly from his chest. I recognize it is supposed to be a laugh, even though he's unable to lift his lips into a smile. "Do you want to know how we got you out?" I ask. I just want to keep him talking and get him as lucid as possible.

"No. I wouldn't understand. I didn't know what was going on most of the time."

I drag my hands down so they are resting on his chest. It's foolish to keep him awake. He is very sick. "You should rest."

"No!" he croaks suddenly. I am startled and one of my hands shoots up to the side of his face where I gently caress his hair to calm him. His hair has grown out; it's the longest I've ever seen it. Or perhaps his face has become so thin it seems longer. "Please, don't let me sleep. I was unconscious almost all the time, and when I would wake up I didn't know it if was day or night. It was always dark," his voice wavers as he finishes.

"Shhh…," I shush him again and continually caress his hair. I need him to stay calm. I remember the herbs and pick them up from where they have fallen on the mattress. I hold them near his nose while he takes a few cleansing breaths. "This will help clear your head."

"From your mother?"

"Yes. And by the way, it's night. It's two-thirty in the morning. We're in District 13. We—"

"Don't say anymore. I don't care." He clears his throat and I do the same, but more awkwardly than he does. I place the herbs back on his chest.

"I'm sorry. I don't really know what I'm saying," I confess. I notice his hand begins to shake again. "Don't do that. You're too sick to move. Just tell me what you want."

"Hold my hand?" he asks tentatively. I nearly laugh again, thinking back to the time when it was required of us to hold hands. I decide to do one better. I take his hand like before, but now I sit on the bed, facing him, and lay his arm across my lap. He still can't smile, but I can see in his eyes he's happy, at least for the moment.

"Tell me about you," he instructs.

Of course. His favorite topic of discussion. "I've been here, waiting for you to wake up."

"And before?"

"I was waiting," I answer enigmatically. He's already said he doesn't want to know what the resistance has been doing. I don't want to confuse him with news of uprisings and deaths and the rebuilding of nuclear warheads. He is still unaware of those things, and he will remain that way as long as possible. There's no point in filling his head with fodder for more nightmares.

"What does that mean?" he questions.

Instead of giving him an answer, I look down at our hands. Mine are callused and dry; all of my nails chewed away. His hands are surprisingly soft without a speck of dirt under his fingernails. It's amazing the attention the Capitol will give to personal hygiene and appearances even as they put you through hell. Before I can think of something to say, Peeta interrupts the silence.

"Katniss, tell me what to think. Tell me what I don't know."

I understand I directed him to tell me what he wanted, but this kind of information will be too much for him to handle right now. "Not now," I say simply.

The hard line of his mouth manages to fall into a slight frown. "You're Gale's now? Aren't you?"

I look up at his empty face and wipe away another stream of tears that have fallen down his cheeks. We always avoided this conversation in the past. We had to. We were always under the eyes of the Capitol. Now, for the first time in two years, we are completely alone. We could say anything without risking ourselves or our families. Even with less outside pressure, this moment feels more monumental than any other. I couldn't hide behind my fears of the Capitol any longer. I would have to face both Peeta and my heart.

"If the Hunger Games had never happened, I never would have known you, would I?" I think out loud. If it is a good place to start, I don't know. It is simply the first place my mind goes.

"Probably not. I'd never worked up the courage to talk to you before then." Oh Peeta. The boy with the bread. A title I gave him for an event that feels like it occurred a thousand years ago. I never actually knew that boy, despite how well I know the boy lying before me. My mother said how we were all affected by the Games, which is brutally true in my case, but I doubt its truthfulness when it comes to Peeta. He had nightmares like me, but his personality was still so genuine. I may not have known him before, but I believe he is the same. He is still kindness and light in a darkening world. He is still in love with a girl he shouldn't be in love with. I sigh and stroke his knuckles with my thumbs. He sighs in response and his eyes look like they are becoming heavy.

"I can't help wondering what it would have been like if they didn't call Prim's name that day. What it would be like to still be living in the Seam right now. Would anything be different?" I imagine my life would be the same. I would be taking care of Prim and my mother. I would go hunting on Sunday. I would walk through the streets making my illegal trades and taking things day by day. Of course, Peeta would have still been in the Games and he'd probably be dead. There is a possibility he might have won, but neither event would have affected me much. I would have grown into a young woman with one choice, not two. I know what I'm going to say will hurt him, but I force myself to continue. "It would have been so easy to fall in love with Gale. I understand that now," I whisper. I don't want him to remember this conversation. I hate myself for saying these things to him. "Gale and I, we come from the same place. We lost our fathers the same way. We're so much the same person. It's the way my life would have gone," my voice shakes at the end as I struggle against a sob. "But even as I entertain those thoughts, at the same time, I despise them, because even if they hadn't called Prim's name that day, they still would have called yours. I would have lost you."

"But you didn't know me then. You would be happy." His voice sounds gravely.

I keep staring at our hands, even though his face is probably still petrified by the drugs and won't betray his emotions. I know I will be able to recognize when I break his heart again. "Maybe," I admit. Happiness is never a given in the Seam no matter if one falls in love or not. "I'm not sure if I understand love or fate or destiny or whatever its name is. But, I believe timing is part of it. Perhaps, it in the end, it defines all of it. Maybe Gale and would have fallen in love, but we never had the chance, and we never will, because I met you." I finally look up at him and I recognize the hope that suddenly enters his eyes. He understands the significance of the words I choose. Gale and I did not lose our chance because of the Games, it is because of Peeta. Our meeting changed everything. There is no more denying it.

"Katniss," he murmurs.

"I can't live with myself knowing you're hurting," I acknowledge. It feels so freeing to finally accept the truths I have been struggling to understand these past months. It no longer feels like I am trapped underneath them; it feels like relief from the strain of fighting against them.

"If it's guilt that you feel—"

"It doesn't matter if I felt guilt in the past or if I feel it now!" I say back at him sternly. I pause and swallow once so I can calm my voice. "And I know it's more than that." I begin shaking my head like it's an uncontrollable tick. "Peeta, I'm broken. I can barely function when you are away from me. It hurts too much." I think back on the months I have been living with a massive rift in my body. Yes, I filled it up with grief and guilt as my mother like my mother accused, but no one offered any other kind of solace to me. No one, not even Gale, closed the rift completely.

"Is that love?" he dares to ask.

I have been surrounded with nothing but hate and violence as of late. I know punishment, I know fear, and I know grief. What do I know of love? Instantly, I think of Prim. I love her. I think of my mother. I think of Gale. I love them all. Loving them had always been easy and natural. I look over Peeta, who looks increasingly more worried with each passing second I take to consider his question. I lean forward, so my chest is hovering over his and my hands rest against his shoulders.

"Peeta let me protect you. Let me take care of you. I don't want to be separated from you, ever. Please don't push me away."

"Katniss, I want you to be happy. I swear it," he groans as his teeth grate together.

"Peeta, you heal me. You are the only thing that closes up this hole in my chest. You make the nightmares go away. I want to do the same thing for you."

"You always have. Even when you didn't want me."

"Peeta…" I lean forward even further so my nose aligns next to his. His eyes close and his hot breath fans over my lips. He's still too warm and I'm distracted by the heat radiating off his body. I have to go get the nurse.

"Can I kiss you?" he asks.

I smirk. I can't stop myself. "You can't move, and you probably won't remember this conversation," I tell him.

"I remember everything," he vows. We've never kissed without a camera on us, without some underlying reason to. If we kiss now, it's because I want to. The idea is momentarily overwhelming to me. My body position is uncomfortable because I'm not putting any weight onto Peeta; there is no sense in making it more difficult for him to breathe. It strains my back and my neck simultaneously. Peeta is swimming in a sea of drugs and I'm positive he won't remember this the next time he wakes up. Maybe it's that thought that convinces me to move forward, close my eyes, and press my lips against his. It's an odd kiss, he can barely push back, nor can he lift his arms to embrace me. Still, something electric and indescribable sweeps through me – something I only had a fleeting memory of. It flows through my shoulders to my fingertips, from my spine down to my toes and back again, until it whirls around in my chest sewing up the last of the rift, permanently. I will be left with a scar in the end. It isn't a scar anyone could see, and even if someone could, they would never understand it. People think of scars as evidence of a painful event, but that isn't the only thing they are symbolic of, it's not even the most important thing. Scars may be a result of a pain, but more than anything, they are a mark of being healed.


	2. Fever

A/N: This is a companion piece to what was previously a one-shot, _Scars_. This is an "unofficial" second chapter to that story because while I think it stands on its own, I wrote this, so I might as well share it. So, if you were satisfied with how the _Scars_ ended, don't continue. If you just want to read more about Katniss and Peeta, continue on.

**Fever **

I hear fabric shuffle. My eyes don't open and my mind struggles through a haze of sleep to comprehend what I'm hearing. Some kind of hollow metal is creaking and straining. Something rattles. What item in this room rattles? If I ignore it for just another second it will probably stop. This drafty building is always making unidentifiable noises. Another hollow metal creaking sound assaults my ears. It feels too good to hold my eyes closed.

The subtle creak escalates into a crash – metal clangs loudly against the concrete floor. Something soft slaps against it as well.

"God damn it!" someone curses.

My eyes shoot open, but they are straining against the light coming from the hallway. Who is shouting? I push myself up onto my elbows and peek through my drowsy eyes.

"Peeta?" I call groggily. My cot is a foot below the height of his bed, but I can tell no one is lying in it. Suddenly, my slow, sleepy body pushes against my cot and I'm standing, a little wobbly at first, but standing. I see nothing but rumpled sheets in his bed. "Peeta?!" I call again, my voice cracks.

"Ugh…," he groans from the other side. I peer over. He's on the floor. Quickly, I run around the bed to get to him. He's on his side, as is his wheelchair.

"Peeta, what are you doing? Are you alright?" I ask harshly as I wrench my arm around his so I can pull him into a sitting position. I immediately look over his fingers and his wrists, worried that he might have sprained them or even broken them.

"I was just trying to get out of bed to go take a piss and lost my balance getting into this god damned chair." He curses in the direction of the wheelchair. He's lucky to have it, but too upset and exhausted to appreciate at the moment. I am too exhausted to deal with his temper. Honestly, Peeta is one of the most even-tempered people I know, but lately, his aches, pains, and frustrations have been getting the better of him.

"Why didn't you wake me up?" I bark at him. Peeta and I rarely fight, but it's four in the morning and neither of us have any patience.

"Because I don't want to be a helpless invalid," he barks back.

"You'd rather fall out of bed and hurt yourself?"

"I'd rather be able to walk to the bathroom by myself."

"Yes, well, I would, too," I say coolly. I straighten his wheelchair and assist him into it. He grumbles under his breath the entire time. I begin to push behind him, but he's impatient, and he grabs the wheels and pushes himself toward the bathroom, his own bathroom. Another luxury he's lucky to have. Very few people have their own bathroom. Peeta is well enough that he no longer needs to be hooked up to machines, but not well enough to move into the barracks where everyone else sleeps. There are four private rooms reserved for recovering patients who do not need constant attention. The room next door is being used by a woman who just delivered a baby. My mother said she was an enjoyable patient, strong and healthy and so excited to have a new baby. Peeta is just about the worst patient in the entire medical ward. He is still dealing with some of the after-effects of the poisons that once ran through his system; fevers, fatigue, chills, nausea, and a significant impact on his immune system. However, the worst part of his recovery is rebuilding his strength. He needs to slowly learn to walk again as several months of being completely non-mobile greatly reduced his muscle strength. He is being taught how to walk, for the third time in his life, and without the amenities of a Capitol hospital it's much harder. Peeta absolutely hates it, and despite his generally optimistic persona, he becomes extremely unpleasant to work with. No one wants to help him. I fall into that category from time to time.

I lean against the wall right next to the bathroom door, just in case he needs help. If I climb back into bed, I won't want to get up again. I hear some muffled cursing coming from behind the door. I do my best not to listen too carefully. The door swings open and Peeta wheels himself out. He stops when he sees me standing next to the door.

"Damn it, Katniss! Do you have to stand outside the door? It's embarrassing. I'm not two years old," he groans.

I choose not to respond.

He wheels by me and rolls up to his bed. He locks the brakes and then tries to pull himself back up into his bed. Usually, I help him with this, but he's way too irritated and proud to ask for help now.

"You know, you weren't like this last time," I say from across the room.

"'Last time?'" he grunts.

"The last time I had to nurse you back to health you were happy to have my help." Back in the Games. Back in the caves. Back when he was receiving the worst possible care and still he was the bravest and nearly the most agreeable patient ever.

"Well, I was pretty sure I was going to die then so I didn't care," he snaps at me. He has one leg up on the bed, but he's having trouble lifting his prosthetic leg up. I'd feel sorry for him if he wasn't so completely obstinate about asking for help.

"So, now that you're probably not going to die, you're going to be stubborn and impossible?"

"Maybe." With one final grunt he manages to roll his body over and get all his limbs onto the mattress once again. Unfortunately, his last effort also pushed his wheelchair a foot further away from his bed. He won't be able to reach it the next time wants to get out of bed. Peeta glances at it and then at me; perhaps he's waiting for me to point out his mistake. I'm gracious enough not to mention it.

I walk up to the foot of his bed and lean over the footboard. Peeta is straightening out his blankets.

"The whole reason I sleep in here is so I can help you," I say softly.

"Is that the only reason?"

A laugh escapes from my throat. If he thinks he's going to get soft declarations of affection right now, he is sorely mistaken. "Yes, of course, who wouldn't want to sleep right next to your cranky face?" I walk away in a huff and collapse into my own cot. I pull the covers over my torso and close my heavy eyes.

The room isn't exactly quiet. I can here machines beeping down the hall, the buzzing of fluorescent lighting, and the clangs and whirls of the struggling heating system. I can also hear Peeta's shallow breathing. He gets winded so easily now. Even that small exertion took it out of him. He's going to be so tired in the morning, which means he'll be especially irritable. I sigh. His bad attitude has really been getting to me, just as much as it has the rest of the staff. We're all struggling, some are far worse off than Peeta. Hopefully, he's asleep now.

"Katniss?" Peeta suddenly asks, breaking the non-silence.

"What?" I reply, making sure to let him know how annoyed I am in that single syllable.

"I'm sorry. Would you come here please?" he nearly pleads.

I sigh a second time and remind myself of what I just said to Peeta. I stay in here to take care of him, whether he likes it or not. I throw the covers back and stand up again. "What do you need?"

His eyes are soft and apologetic; all traces of his temper are gone. He reaches out for my hand and I let him thread his fingers with mine. "The last person I want to be mean to is you," he whispers.

I lean forward and rest my elbows on his mattress. I give his hand a gentle squeeze. "You're lucky to have me," I remind him. "You've scared all the volunteers away, and the nurse. My mother won't even help you." I'm grinning at him, but all he gives me is a half-hearted smirk in response.

"I hate this," he whispers through his teeth. "I know after the Games I was ten minutes from dying, but I was patched up within a matter of days. I didn't have all this therapy. It didn't take so much time."

"We don't have the same facilities or medicines. And it's only been four weeks. You're getting stronger every day. To ask any more of yourself would be too much." He looks so disappointed, like he's failed. His recovery would be going much faster if he didn't also have to deal with the repercussions of being injected with dozens of toxins. Some days he's not even able to do his therapy, which significantly slows down his progress. Even now, as I hold his hand I notice his temperature has spiked again.

"You're warm again," I say, pulling his hand to my face so the backs of his fingers touch my cheek.

"Ignore it."

"I can't ignore it."

"We both know the medicine supplies are dwindling. No need to waste them on me."

"Don't be a martyr, Peeta," I say with a forced smile. I partially meant it as a joke. How many times have we claimed the pursuit of martyrdom between us? Too many to count.

"I'm serious. I get fevers all the time. There's not much I can do about them other than to wait them out. Don't get the nurse or your mother involved again, please?" he begs.

I don't want to agree, but he presents a fair argument. I also know he's exhausted and just weary of being sick. It's why he's prone to bad moods. I would feel the same way if I were in his place. No one from District Twelve is all that comfortable with being taken care of.

"Fine," I concede, choosing not to argue with him anymore. Not during the reappearance of kind, sweet, and vulnerable Peeta. The man thousands of people watching on screen couldn't help but fall in love with. He pulls my hand into his lap and I'm forced to lift my elbows from the mattress. He tugs on my arm and flashes me a crooked smile that I begrudgingly smirk at. He always sneaks those in when I'm least expecting them. With a teasing roll of my eyes I lift myself onto his mattress. He pulls me against his chest and I comply; my heads rests on his shoulder and his arm wraps around my torso while his hand continues to play with my fingers. Wrapped up with him like this, I become even more aware of how warm his body is and I wish I hadn't let him persuade me not to find medicine for him. I'm too distracted to even relax into him, like I normally would during these small moments of privacy. My head is replaying what happened the last time he had a bad fever. It was awful. He tossed and turned in his bed all night, sweating through his sheets and moaning incessantly. Often, he was moaning my name. The fever was giving him nightmares and what I wouldn't give to be able to reach in and pull out every bad thought, every bad dream. This time isn't remotely like that bad fever; now it is only slight and is probably making me more uncomfortable than it is him. Still, wrapped in his arms, all I feel is anxious.

Peeta keeps his fingers loosely intertwined with mine and runs his thumb over my palm, over the many faded calluses on my fingers. It's been so long since I hunted last. There aren't many places to hunt in District 13. Everything above ground is mostly rubble.

"I don't like this," he says against my ear. I look up at him, confused. He's the one who pulled me up here in the first place. Catching my confusion, he looks down at me meaningfully, and continues, "I mean, I don't like being so unhealthy. I can't protect you."

"Protect me from what?" I inquire.

"From anything. From everything," he says vaguely.

"I have some news for you; you couldn't protect me from everything even if you were the strongest person in all of Panem."

"At least I'd have a fighting chance," he mumbles. Things start to piece together for me then. I want to smack myself for not realizing it earlier. Yes, Peeta's frustration and irritability is a result of a slow recovery, but his impatience comes from a different place. He's not the least bit worried about how vulnerable he is. He's worried about how vulnerable_ I_ am, even as a fully able-bodied and healthy person with the same level of vulnerability as anyone else. That is, if you don't include the fact that I am the face of the current rebellion, which substantially increases the amount of people ready and willing to take my life. Throughout these past months I do my best not to think about it, because it's really too overwhelming to comprehend. If I lied in bed at night counting the number of people who want to kill me, I'd never sleep again. I have no idea what would be best for my mental health, but I have been able to push those thoughts out of my head; partly because I focus so much on Peeta's recovery. However, throughout his recovery, Peeta hasn't been focusing on his needs at all, he's been thinking about me.

I twist my body around so I'm on my side and can see his face. He's so exhausted. I can see it in all his features. I can also see his fear – fear that his nightmares will come true. I want to reassure him that I'll be safe, that I'll always be with him. I can't make that promise. I can't even make that promise to myself. The future is too unclear and the idea of my living another day is too indefinite, perhaps even unlikely.

I touch his cheek and his eyes close. He does this whenever he's trying to sear a particular moment in his mind. Since he recalls nearly nothing from his experience in the Capitol, memories have become quite precious to him.

"Peeta, I'm here," I promise. Before his eyes open I push myself up onto my elbow and brush my lips softly against his. He clenches his eyes shut even tighter. Another memory, another feeling he can't bear to forget. My lips fall to his again and my body rests against him. His arms come around me, enveloping my in his uncomfortable warmth. A sweat breaks out easily on his forehead and neck and I think about how winded he'll be when we come up for air. As if he knows what I'm contemplating, he holds me even tighter and a shaky moan vibrates in his chest. His kisses are soft, but desperate, even more so than our kisses during the Games. I would do anything to be able to be with him without this fear hanging over us, without this need to make every connection between us so decidedly frantic. I would give anything for some certainty, for some time.

One of his hands pushes against the small of my back; the other gently pushes against the spot below the back of my neck. I press my mouth harder against him as I try to make him forget the awfulness of our circumstances. His tongue is quick and eager and my entire body collapses into him. Seconds pass, maybe minutes. I lose track. All I can concentrate on is the electric current running through my body and how it intensifies with each small progression of our movements. His hand moves from my lower back and dances down my side, pausing at my thigh. His feather-light touches tickle, while his unhealthy heat practically burns my flesh. He hooks his hand under my leg and pulls it to his hip. An embarrassing sound escapes from my throat. I can't even identify what it was. All I know is the adjustment allows us to fit together even closer. That's when I notice how hard his chest is working to keep up with our efforts. I'm snapped back into reality and abruptly pull away. Peeta doesn't release his hold on me, but I know he's grateful for the break. I lean away from him as much as he'll allow giving him more room to breathe. He closes his eyes again as his breathing slowly returns to normal.

"Will you stay here?" he asks between pants. When Peeta says "here," he doesn't mean the room, because I stay with him every night. He means "here," as in, his own bed. We've shared a bed numerous times; however, we always had a bit more privacy in the past. Even though Peeta isn't a primary concern of the medical volunteers, people still come and go on a regular basis. That's why I sleep in a cot next to him. I don't want anyone to walk in on anything; that includes my mother, and god-forbid, Prim.

"That depends, will you sleep?" I wipe the sweat off his forehead with my sleeve. I would have gotten him a cold compress, but I doubt his willingness to let me go just now.

"Sleeping has become my least favorite thing lately," he mutters. I still appreciate sleep, as fleeting as it may have been. Those hours of unconsciousness are such an underrated blessing. Then again, when your hours of unconsciousness overshadow your hours of consciousness, as was Peeta's case, you rapidly learn to appreciate the blessing of being awake.

"I'm going to be here when you wake up," I promise again.

"I don't know if I can ever be sure of that again." His voice cracks and I nuzzle my face into his neck, allowing him to hold me however he wants to. I want him to feel my breath, to feel my heart beating, to feel how real and alive I am when I'm with him.

"They're not going to send me out to fight in the streets. I'm the mockingjay, remember?" In the strangest way, that identity both saves me and damns me at the same time. One population of people fights to protect me, the other fights to destroy me.

"There are no guarantees."

Again, he's right. I begin to realize that this is not going to be the end of this argument. There probably will never be an end. We will continue to have this discussion until either I am dead or until Snow is dead.

His breathing is slow and shallow again but his body temperature has moved up a degree or two – most likely because of our recent actions. How the nurse would scold me if she knew what we were doing. She doesn't like it much that I am staying in here in general, but she doesn't have much of a say on the matter. Peeta would probably go on a hunger strike if she made me leave. He really needs to sleep now, but I'm afraid he's too wired to fall asleep again. This is what usually happens when I sleep in his bed. He gets too anxious and worried and can't relax enough to let himself sleep. If I can distract him from our conversation, hopefully, he can rest.

"I have an idea. You go to sleep now and tomorrow morning you do your therapy without complaint and be nice to whoever got stuck working with you." He snickers through his nose and I can't help but smile. Whenever we can make each other laugh, despite the war going on around us, those are moments that need to be cherished the most. I place a kiss on his neck and another along his jaw. He sighs and his vice-like grip lessens slightly. It's a good sign. It means he's relaxing. "And in return we will spend the rest of the day together. Just us. No one else."

"Really?" he asks with more hope in his voice than I've heard in a week.

"Yes. I will bring food and we will sit in bed and—"

"No one else?" he interrupts.

I smile against his skin again. "Yes."

He leans back so he can see my face and I can see his. He's smiling too. "Okay." He kisses me once on my nose, lingers for a few seconds on my lips, then he obediently lays back and scoots around a bit until he's comfortable. I am right about him being exhausted, because even amongst the nearby beeping machinery, the noise of the building, and my presence in his bed, he's asleep within minutes.

Unfortunately, it all has the opposite effect on me. It's nearly dawn now, and while I was able to distract Peeta, my mind is still buzzing over our discussion. At this point, by the time I fall asleep someone will be knocking on the door to wake Peeta up and take him to therapy.

I let a few more moments pass, completely assuring myself that Peeta is entirely asleep before I disentangle myself from him arms. It's not something I usually do and I'm well aware I'm breaking my promise to stay with him. Normally, I'm as desperate as Peeta for these small moments of togetherness, but I figure a few moments to get my head together may be in our best interest.

I begin a walk out of the medical ward and toward the dining hall in hopes of finding some leftover coffee from the previous evening. It will be cold and taste like it's been on the burner too long, but it's something. Everyone is still sleeping. All I hear is the obnoxious whirring of the ventilation system. I pass the shower room, the barracks, and a few miscellaneous rooms Haymitch and the others use for training or discussing strategies. They're all empty as well, except for one. One room still has its light on. The door in slightly ajar, flooding a bright yellow strip of light into the dimly lit hallway. I figure it must be Haymitch, maybe Finnick. I walk up to the door, expecting to see either Haymitch discussing plans frantically or finding him passed out on the table. I'm wrong on both counts.

I see Gale.


	3. Wound

A/N: Thanks to everyone who reviewed or added this story to their alerts or favorites! Also, thanks to the people over at Team Peeta (team-peeta(dot)co(dot)cc) for recommending this story. Finally, a big thank you to BlackOpal for sharing some truly thoughtful theories with me. Check out her story, _Burning Embers _for some heart-pounding, beautiful stuff!

There will be one more chapter and that will be it for this. I don't know when I'll do it, but hopefully it will be sooner rather than later.

**Wound **

A lot goes through you when you're staring someone down without a weapon. Initially, you feel surprise at what you have discovered and at being discovered. Next, there is fear because you have nothing with which to defend yourself. There is always the underlying tension caused by the inevitable adrenaline that pumps through you. While at the same time, your mind hurdles through every survival technique buried in the arsenal of your brain. Ironically, as all this is happening, you often find yourself paralyzed, as I did at this very moment. A veritable animal caught in the headlights.

Gale isn't someone I should be afraid of nor should I find myself in need of a weapon when I face him. And truly, these feelings aren't a result of fearing for my life. The panic that leaves me frozen in my spot is an all too common reaction that a person has when she is caught in a situation she does not know how to handle. That is why I am stuck staring at him as the blood drains from my face. I have no idea what to do or say.

Gale doesn't look up right away, so had I been thinking on my feet instead of being hopelessly paralyzed I might have snuck by without being noticed. However, Gale has a hunter's senses and can feel me staring at him. He glances up at the doorway and instantly locks his tired, but focused gaze with my wide eyes. Were I the prey and Gale the hunter, I would be long dead by now. Feeling trapped and uncomfortable, I look down at my feet.

"Did you need something?" he calls out softly.

"No…nothing. I…uh…was just looking for some coffee or tea or something," I mumble toward the floor. These are the first words we've spoken since Peeta was rescued. We've passed in the hallways, we've shared occasional eye contact in meetings, but private conversations were all but missing between us.

"I have some here, if you'd like it." He gestures to a tarnished metal pot sitting amongst a scattering of papers and notes.

"Oh." I feel like an animal being taken in by the bait, into one of Gale's very carefully structured snares. I tell myself this feeling is ludicrous as I scuffle across the floor. My hand shakes a little as I pour the coffee. I convince myself it's because I didn't sleep much, although it's more likely it's because Gale is still staring me down like a wounded deer. Attempting to ignore the static in the air, I press the mug to my lips and take an audible sip. The bitter liquid burns my tongue. It hurts, but at least the coffee loses some of its taste. "I still don't like coffee much," I mutter.

"Me neither." He drops his eyes back to the numerous papers strewn about the table. My eyes go blurry as I observe them. It's line after line of solid black text on white backgrounds that burn my eyes. I can't differentiate one word from another. I take another sip of the coffee in hopes that it will rejuvenate me.

"What are you doing?" I ask.

"Reading correspondences from our people in the Capitol. At the moment they are all alive, but most of these notes are a week old. No telling."

I offer a nod as my only response. It is odd how safe this place has begun to feel. Having lost my father while he was buried beneath the earth, I never thought I would feel comforted having a hundred feet of dirt between myself and fresh air. Our "people" in the Capitol are living a far more dangerous existence. Immediately after we broke out of the Games, there was a massive witch hunt attempting to flush out rebels. A few were found, several were falsely accused. Anyone who was accused, falsely or not, is now dead. This includes Cinna, my stylist, my friend. I witnessed his final words before he was murdered. This also includes Mayor Undersee of District 12, who refused to abandon the people he served, even as the firebombs were falling around him. He did everything he could to get the citizens of twelve, even the lowly peasants from the Seam, out of the district and to this haven beneath the surface. Who knew he was so devoted to his constituents? Who knew he could be so brave? Perhaps only his daughter, who I have seen wandering the halls at night, mourning in the same way the rest of us do. Nightmares keep us all awake now.

Something must be wrong with my head at this point. Maybe I don't get enough oxygen down here. Because for the past few weeks, I have done my best to forget how close we have all been to death, how close we remain. My stomach lurches at how horribly I have been honoring the deaths of those who have sacrificed themselves for me. Peeta thinks about it constantly. Every smile is accompanied by a strain of fear in his eyes.

"Where's Haymitch?" I choke out against the tightening of my throat.

"He hadn't slept in four days and he finally crashed."

"Sounds like something he'd do," I scoff.

"We'll see him again in another twenty-four hours."

It isn't until now, when Gale's eyes are off of me, that I can absorb his current state. There is a dark shadow under both his eyes. He's tired, like the rest of us. He doesn't appear to have lost or gained any weight, which is interesting because half the people here from District 12 have been forced to become accustomed to eating much less, while the other half is enjoying eating much more. We have two heavily rationed meals a day. They are tasteless and repetitive, but they are filling.

The black coal is missing from under fingernails and from the creases of his face. I don't miss it. Aside from these small changes, there is something else about Gale I can't quite discern. I've always been able to read him so well. When did I lose this ability? Were my hunting skills so out of practice?

"How's the hospital wing?" he asks.

"It's fine. Struggling with the limited supplies, but we're making do. A woman gave birth two days ago."

"Lucky kid," he says flatly.

I nod again. This is not a world any child should be brought into. My mind has not changed on that topic. If anything, it has been reinforced. Before, it was the threat of starvation or losing my child to the Games that prevented me from considering having my own family. Now, the prospect of living another day is so unlikely, what is the point? Still, I recall the glow of joy in her eyes as she held her newborn infant. All her fears were dashed. All I saw was hope. Not even this war could stop life from moving forward.

"Regardless, it was a nice change. A happy ending," I say.

"Yeah, well, we can only hope," Gale responds with a roll of his eyes.

I sip my drink again. It's finally at a moderate temperature and easy to drink. I notice the sounds of the building again. The complicated ventilation system creaks. It's what pumps oxygen down to our level; the very thing that makes this underground dwelling possible. The lighting above us buzzes and the papers on the table make sharp shuffling sounds as Gale adjusts the piles. Then there is the silence. The audible, crackling silence that hovers around us like a heavy fog. It feels like we're in the woods again on a muggy morning; attempting to track our prey but knowing how impossible it will be when we cannot see more than a foot in front of us. As I stand in this tiny room with gray walls and cold floors, my vision couldn't be clearer, yet I've never felt so lost.

Gale sets the notes down and presses his palms over his eyes. On top of the fatigue I noticed initially, I now see how his shoulders droop, and it's not a result of being tired. He looks the complete opposite of the woman I observed a few days ago. He is beaten down and wounded – as if he's given up. This isn't Gale, not the Gale I knew. Gale is supposed to be strong and his spirit unwavering. Even as he was being whipped to death he never lost his integrity. He stands head and shoulders above the rest of us in his desire for justice and his willingness to see this revolution through. He wanted this. But now, he appears so broken, and I'm left to consider the reason why. A heavy, intangible weight hits my chest. I may not have my bow with me, but that doesn't mean I am not successful in my kill.

"Do we really have nothing else to say to each other?" Gale groans from behind his hands.

"I don't know what to say," I answer honestly. I feel like a coward, a failure, and a horrible friend. How could I begin to apologize to him, and yet, is there anything to apologize for? Of course there is, but I had no way of putting that into words. This situation has always been complex. And even now that I'd found a scrap of undeserved happiness, I couldn't even enjoy it because pain is still permeating it from all sides.

"Fine," he states flatly. He stands up and begins to gather up a few random papers and shoves them into an abused file folder. Before I can blink he has papers in his hands and is heading toward the door.

"Gale! Wait. Sit down," I plead.

"I'm tired. I'm going to lie down."

"Look, I know I've never explained myself—"

"Hey, it's like you said," he interrupts as he turns back around. "We've got nothing left to say."

"He almost _died_, Gale," I emphasize, as if that takes away all the hurt I have caused him.

"Every one of us has almost died, Katniss." He turns to leave again. I quickly set the mug on the table and sprint to his side.

"Gale, stop! Let me talk," I say as I grasp his arm. His muscles tense as I touch him, but he pauses. I hold on for another second, until I'm sure he won't run, and then let his arm go. He angles himself away from me and leans against the gray, steel wall.

I have to stop and breathe. Communication has never been my strong suit – at least with most people. With Gale, it is a very different story. Before the rebellion, before the Games, back when my life was predictable and relatively simple, spending time with Gale was my favorite thing in the world. Being with him was an escape from the dreariness of my life. I could tell him anything and I thought he could do the same with me. I was wrong. He had feelings for me; feelings I didn't recognize. Maybe they were always there. Maybe if I was a normal girl whose greatest worry was what she wore to school in order to impress a boy – someone who had training in deducing a young man's words and actions I would have known. I was never that girl, and I believed Gale never wanted me to be that way. He was impressed with my skills with a bow and how I put my family's priorities before my own, so much like him. Now, it is nearly impossible to talk to him. I don't like it. I don't want it to be this way. But how could I expect anything from him when I chose someone else?

"You know when I went into the Quell I didn't think I'd live through it," I tell him. "I had to try and save him. He could have offered so much to the rebellion. He still can."

"You're asking me to believe this is about a service to the rebellion?" he says angrily.

"At first, that's what it was. I give nothing to this cause. I'm just a symbol. And for some bizarre reason Haymitch and the others thought it more important I live than Peeta. But they're wrong. Peeta is the one with the skill. Peeta is the one who can inspire people."

"Peeta is not the one who volunteered to take his sister's place in the Games," Gale reminds me. Peeta did volunteer for Haymitch during the Quell, but I don't bring that up because while it was very courageous, it's not the same thing I did, and Gale would point that out. "That's what inspires people. That you could be braver than the rest of us."

"I didn't intend for any of that to spark a rebellion."

"Yeah, yeah, you were a pawn, whatever," he says with a wave of dismissal. He pushes himself off the wall and throws his file of papers back to the table. A few of them spill out and mix with the papers he was going to leave behind. Gale doesn't even glance at them. He steps forward and decreases the space between us to mere inches. It amazes me how he can still smell like fresh air even when all the air we breathe is re-circulated. It makes me think of the woods. It makes me think of home. That is what Gale will always represent to me; the purity of home, the way it once was.

"Katniss, none of that even matters! You're not in the Games anymore!" he shouts. "We're not a part of Panem. Everything you're doing now is all you."

I haven't been explaining myself well at all. I'm making it sound like I chose Peeta just to serve the revolution, while simultaneously fulfilling my purpose as a symbol and keeping up with the appearances the Capitol expected of me. I know Haymitch would not expect me to keep up with those pretenses if I did not wish to, not when to do otherwise is no longer a danger to me. Gale knows that, too. "You're right," I mutter.

"Are you going to marry him?" he asks abruptly.

My head perks up and I take a step back. It takes me a moment to absorb the question, but I still don't comprehend it. "What?"

"Answer the question," he orders.

"No…I'm not…," I stutter. I'm completely thrown. What a ridiculous thing to ask. If we were keeping up with pretenses, then yes, a marriage between Peeta and I would be on the horizon, but as it is, I haven't changed my stance on marriage or having a family. I begin to wonder what kind of gossip has been circling throughout the compound and how much of it Gale has been listening in on. I have been spending every night for the past four weeks with Peeta, mostly alone, in his room. People will come to their own conclusions about such things. "What does that matter?" I groan.

"I don't know. It just does." He shrugs.

"Gale, I have meant every word I have ever said to you. I never once lied to you. You're the only person I can say that to."

"Well, maybe I'd rather be one of the ones you lie to." He takes a few steps back and hits the wall again. He slides down until he lands on the floor, letting his legs stretch out in front of him. His eyes turn blank and detached as the fatigue overtakes him. Standing over him, I feel like a hunter again instead of the prey. My victim is literally suffering on the ground in front of me. The phrase, "put him out of his misery," runs through my head. It sends a chill down my back. I don't want to cause this hurt, this wound. I don't want him to endure more than he already has. I cannot take his misery away; to think so would belittle the depth of his feelings for me, but I hope I can take some of his burden away. Gale has been through so much already. He cannot exist without the spirit that sustains him.

I take a breath. My voice softens substantially. "Those times in the woods when I said I didn't want to have a boyfriend or get married or have a family, I meant what I said. I wasn't saying it just to keep you out," I reassure him.

"I know that," he murmurs. His eyes remained fixed on some nothingness ahead of him. I want to console him. I want to hug him. I want to tell him how badly I still want him in my life. I do not deserve to request this of him. "It's not fair." His voice is hoarse and weak. "I loved you first."

The air escapes from my chest and I fight to keep my balance. I had never been comfortable with charity, feeling liked I owed those who bestowed me with various forms of kindness. Declarations of love feel like the ultimate form of charity. There is only one way to repay that kind of gift, you must reciprocate it, but you can only do so once, with one person.

I sit down next to him, but keep my legs bent and close to my chest. "I loved you first, too." I do not know if this will add more to his pain or take away from it. Either way, I am glad it is not a lie. I did love him first. I loved Gale in a myriad of different ways, for a million different reasons. It had been a constantly evolving kind of love. Had it been given time, it would have grown into something even greater. The option of time was taken away when the rules and comfort of our tiny world was shattered. Knowing what I know now, would I rather live without those moments we spent together? No. I would never regret his place in my life. Gale could still take me back to that place. He had done so when he held me as we slept through the night and fought the nightmares together. I would always want him to be part of me, but to ask that of him now? That would be too much.

"Then why aren't we together?" he whispers.

"Gale, I've loved you since I was a kid. You shared your food and your knowledge. You taught me about the forest and how to hunt, how to survive. It's because of you my mother, my sister, and I are alive."

His head drops down. His chin is close to his chest. His hair falls into his eyes and for a moment I ache to push it back. "You didn't answer the question," he says.

Why I am I not with Gale? Why during those months when Peeta was captured, during the times I wasn't sure if he was alive or not, did I not just give into the love I share with Gale? I am unsure if I can explain it to him, because I can't quite work it out for myself. I didn't grow up a normal girl. I didn't make lists of pros and cons comparing the merits of one boyfriend to another. That was petty and shallow in my eyes, and in comparison to me, they are both a thousand times better people than I could ever be. "It's not about why I chose him or why I didn't choose you because there is no quality or virtue either of you has that tips the scale one way or the other."

"What the hell does that mean? We're equal?" he says bitingly.

"Yes and no. I do love you, Gale, and I know you love me. I know we could have had a life together if my heart had been open to it back then."

"But it wasn't."

"No…it wasn't," I confess. This is hardly new information. Gale has always known I wasn't looking for love. We discussed it time and time again and agreed it was the most logical and safe decision. Well, there is no logic when it comes to the heart, which causes me to realize, the only reason he asked whether or not I intended to marry Peeta is to understand whether I don't want to marry or if I just don't want to marry Gale. I try to go back and think of myself then, imagining what I would have done if I knew Gale's feelings for me. Would I have been flattered or frightened? Would I have begged to remain friends or thrown myself into his embrace. I might have fallen for Gale had I allowed myself. I accepted his comfort during the months Peeta was gone because I was suffering a wound, like Gale is now. The wound never healed, not until Peeta was returned to me. This isn't something I can quantify to Gale. And there is always a possibility that Gale knows me better or that he and I would be better as a couple. But here we sit, knowing that if I wanted Gale right now, he would accept me and love me with everything he was.

I continue to sit and think and imagine. And then I notice my fingers running absentmindedly over my collar bone. I remember the night when Peeta placed a kiss there, how it made me grin, how relaxed it made me feel, how I wished for more. The hunger.

"But it is with him?" he questions after a prolonged silence.

The past is in the past and impossible to recreate. As aware as I am that a relationship between Gale and I could and perhaps should exist, I can only answer his question with a yes. Peeta was not a part of the world I had with Gale in the Seam. The person I was then wouldn't have even considered him. But the person I am now not only wants him, I need him. My heart needs Peeta. Whether or not I can make Gale understand this is unknown, and perhaps Gale cannot be a part of my life if I follow along this path. I won't ask him to, but I can't give up hope either.

"Gale, I love him," I whisper. Had I ever said it out loud? Offering love is such an abstract and vulnerable act of charity. I always felt that actions speak much louder than words, but these words feel astoundingly massive.

"You going to tell me it was all destiny?" he says mockingly, bringing up the star-crossed lovers routine.

"No," I reply immediately. I don't like the idea of our relationship being reduced to something so out of our control. "You know I want to control my life. The same way you want to have complete control of yours. We have had choices taken away from us our whole lives. I refuse to be manipulated anymore."

He pushes his fallen hair out of his face and sighs heavily. "I'm sorry," he moans.

"Don't apologize," I practically scold. He doesn't need to do any apologizing to me. I only need him to understand my feelings are my own. I also need him to know how much I regret creating the hole in his chest that I am too familiar with. "I don't want to hurt you."

He nods and turns silent. There has to be something else to say, some other way to spur his healing process. I am reminded of how Gale was never able to heal me completely. I begin to fear I will never be able to make amends for what I've done to him. Growing up, he was the only one who knew my secrets. Perhaps it is selfish of me to push for this now, but I need him to know the truth, every truth.

"Do you want to know when I chose him? Not why, when?" I inquire.

A nervous laugh escapes from Gale's throat. I share a smirk with him, understanding the ridiculousness of my question. "Probably not, but go ahead," he answers.

"After Peeta was captured I wasn't the same person. You know this; you helped me get through it. I thought it was because of the guilt. I wanted so much to make sure he made it out of the Quell. I felt like a failure when I couldn't save him."

"To be fair, we'll never know which one of you would have been successful."

"Regardless, that was what I believed. Several weeks after we came here, my mother, Prim, and I were sitting down to dinner in one of the hospital wing offices. My mother was discussing treatments for headaches or something like that with Prim. I wasn't listening to the conversation, but Prim caught my attention when she suddenly asked what treatments my mother uses for depression. My mother has never talked about her depression with Prim, and I was shocked she would even ask. Prim was much too young to understand what was happening when she was little. It makes sense that she would reach the correct conclusions now. She's older and has become quite perceptive. I thought that if Prim brought it up then maybe something had happened to my mother. I ran her behavior through my head, attempting to figure out if I had missed her pulling away like she did before. I couldn't recall anything specific, but I remembered very little from those weeks. Everything was a blur."

"She wasn't talking about your mother," he realizes, much faster than I did at the time.

"No. She was worried about me. I swore I would never allow myself to give up like my mother did. I was ashamed of her. And during that time, I honestly didn't think I was like her. I still ate and slept and functioned, but Prim was right. I could hardly recollect anything that happened before that night. The only thing I can remember is having this ache in my chest that I drowned myself in." My voice falters at the end. Gale takes my hand, interlacing our fingers. I don't mind. I like feeling a connection with Gale again.

"I'm sorry," he repeats, but it's a completely different kind of sorry. He is sorry I had to suffer. I feel the same way about him.

"Gale…Peeta is part of me. He makes me better."

He pulls my hand into his lap and touches the back of my hand with his fingertips. His touch is soothing and gentle. "I didn't help you?"

"You did. You do," I promise as I lean toward him. "You helped me to remember the person I was. But he…he helps me to remember the person I can be." It's the best way I can describe it. Peeta heals me. He strengthens me. His kind soul and optimistic heart balances my pragmatic mind. Peeta not only makes me a better person, he helps me to live, just like when he was the boy offering a starving girl a loaf of bread.

"I don't want you to feel bad about pursuing what your heart wants." Gale can't ignore his principles entirely. He would never deny someone their own personal justice.

"I don't want you to feel like you don't own a piece of my heart."

He seems to have relaxed substantially compared to the angry man I walked in on. I bite my lip as I consider another truth that has been floating through my head for the past year. "Can I ask you a question?" He nods as his eyes continue to rest on my fingers. "Why didn't you ever… you know…"

"Make a move?"

"Yeah," I say with a nervous cough. I suppose kissing me in the woods had been his move, but there were countless opportunities before that and after that.

Gale shakes his head and smiles. He laughs through his nose and squeezes my fingers. I wonder if anyone else has asked him this question. Haymitch maybe. "Katniss, you were my best friend. I thought I would always have you. Even if you didn't love me, I never thought you would belong to someone else. To believe someone else wouldn't fall for you, _god_, it was a stupid thing to think."

"I still belong to you." I mean what I say, even now.

"I still belong to you, too. And I won't keep you from the things you want," he promises.

"Neither will I."

"Who are you keeping me from?" he asks with a lift of his eyebrows.

"You never know. I didn't see Peeta coming."

He smiles and laughs through his nose again. I am not going to be the greatest love of Gale's life. I'm sure of it. Gale is too wonderful and too giving to be alone for the rest of his days. Love will find him. And if his situation is anything like mine, he won't know it till it hits him.

"So, why aren't you with him right now?" His question is playful, not accusing. Despite this I take my hand back and wrap my arms around my knees protectively.

"I wanted a drink. And I needed to sort some things out."

"What kind of things?"

"You don't want to hear this," I assure him.

"Just say it, Katniss. I'm tired of not talking to you."

I find it difficult to fathom this conversation. A few moments ago, I was certain the relationship between Gale and I was over. And now it feels like we're still in the woods again, but in a much better way. It's like we're sitting on a log sharing our day with one another. My heart leaps at the idea that we could still have this push-and-pull between us. I want it and Gale must want it, too. Nonetheless, it's naturally a little awkward to talk about my boyfriend with another man who has feelings for me.

"Peeta has a lot of anxieties about the future," I explain vaguely.

"We all do."

"He's been so down lately. I mean, he hates his therapy, but I don't think that's really the issue. He doesn't like that he can't protect me. He's so scared I'm going to disappear one day. What makes it worse is that I can't tell him he's wrong." The words spill out before I can stop them. I glance over at Gale, expecting him to look uncomfortable. Instead, he just appears to be thinking.

"I can't blame the guy. You do tend to disappear."

My shoulders slump. For all his thinking, his words aren't very helpful. "It's different now though. I'm in control. I'm trying to be. No one is going to use me or trap me like they did before, and more importantly, I'm not going to do anything without telling someone."

He smiles at me, and pushes a stray lock of hair behind me ear. I allow the intimacy, knowing how much I wanted to do the same to him moments ago.

"Then he definitely needs to hear that."

I give him a small smile back and lean into his shoulder. "Thank you for listening. Thank you for…everything." My words can't encompass everything I'm thankful for. I can only hope that over time I can show him. Our relationship is still evolving. It has just gone to a place I never expected.

"There's something I've been wanting to ask you," Gale begins with a slight shift of his body. "How did you take it when Prim told you?"

"When Prim told me what?" When Gale does not answer right away I look up at him. He angles his head in a gesture of encouragement. I'm still at a loss as to what he's talking about.

"You do know your sister has a boyfriend now, right?"

"What?" I immediately respond. "She's too young for a boyfriend."

"I suppose she's a little young. She's almost fifteen. You were married and pregnant before you were eighteen."

"Shut-up," I snap as I try to sort it out in my head. The one thing that shocks me most is that Gale knows this before I do. "How do you know this?"

"The guy is my brother."

"Rory? He's too young for a girlfriend."

"Tell me about it." Gale and Prim became much closer while I was in the Games. I never fathomed that she might have gotten closer to his brother as well.

"She hasn't said a word to me."

"Well, you've been distracted."

I would ask again how he knows this, but the answer is plainly obvious. He's been keeping informed through Prim, which means these past few weeks while we exchanged awkward eye contact, he's been asking about me. He's been thinking about me. He's been caring about me.

Abruptly, I throw my arms around his neck and hug him. For the extensive length of our relationship, we haven't shared much physical contact compared to Peeta and me. The hug feels comfortable and safe. I hear a sigh over my shoulder and hope it is a sign that his wound is closing, at least a little bit. I squeeze him one more time.

We hear some shuffling down the hallway. People are waking up to start cooking and cleaning and doing all the everyday things that make this place run. I let Gale go and help him to stand up. I encourage him to go to bed and he agrees. I wish him sweet dreams as he walks out the door, and even though I'm not planning on going back to bed, he wishes me the same.

Before I leave the room I fill another cup with coffee for Peeta. When I get back to his room he is still asleep and there isn't any way I'd be able to snuggle back into his arms without waking him up. It is too important that he sleep. I grab my blanket from my cot and swing it around my shoulders. I sit at the foot of his bed, cross my legs, and sip my awful coffee until he begins to stir. His eyebrows come together cutely when he realizes I'm not lying next to him. He lifts up his head with a start, searching for me. He's half-relieved, half-irritated, when he sees me.

"Hey, what are you doing over there?" he asks groggily.

"I got up early to get us something to drink." It's not the complete truth, but enough for the moment. I step off the bed to pick up his cup from the side table. It's not steaming any longer, but at least that means he'll be able to drink it immediately. Peeta pushes himself into a sitting position as I hand him his cup. I climb right up onto the bed again only this time I sit next to him so our shoulders are touching, exactly as I had been sitting with Gale minutes earlier. We look innocent together. There's really nothing to be embarrassed about if anyone should walk in.

"How did you sleep?" he asks.

"Fine," I say over the rim of my cup. I'm a terrible liar, and Peeta, being such a skilled liar, can pick up on it better than anyone. So, in the instances where I find it's better to lie, if I keep my sentences as short as possible, I have a much better chance of being successful. Besides, I had been sleeping well prior to our late-night squabble.

"Good. I'm sorry for waking you up. I'm sorry for the way I've been lately."

His apology catches me off-guard. After everything I just went through with Gale, waking me up or even his moody behavior seems like a silly thing to apologize for. "You don't have to apologize. You'll get better. I'll make sure of it." He doesn't smile. He stares into his cup. It startles me. "What is it?"

"I know it's going to happen one of these days."

"What's going to happen?"

"One day I'm going to wake up and you're going to be gone."

"Peeta, no. I—"

"Or you're going to come in here and tell me you have to leave and face some life or death mission and I won't be able to go with you," he says sadly.

I didn't realize how deeply it would affect him to wake up without me lying next to him. I suppose it is the first time I haven't been right there in several weeks. I feel guilty for leaving him, but pleased with how well my talk with Gale went. And pleased with how much it will help Peeta and I resolve this issue.

I take his cup and mine and set them both on the side table. Keeping my blanket around my shoulders, I gently climb over him, straddling his hips. I pin myself as closely as I can to him. I've been embraced by Peeta thousands of times. I've held him while he sleeps and he does the same to me. But this is new. Other than last night when he pulled my leg over his hip, we've never been pressed together like this. It makes the air feel electric and alive. Maybe because I know I'm going to regret this if someone bursts through the door, but for the moment, I don't care. I love the closeness. I love the feel of his body beneath mine. I run my hands over his cheeks, through his hair, and down his neck. Peeta licks his lips nervously as he moves his hands to rest on my waist.

"You know I can't disagree with you, not entirely," I say softly. "Too much is unknown. There might be something that pulls me away – something that could guarantee a safe life for us, for all of Panem. Something that's worth the risk. But I'm not going to make that decision without you. We were doing that for so long. It's time to stop. I'm not going to disappear."

Peeta sighs and closes his eyes. Hopefully, he is accepting the truth of my words.

I lick my lips against my nerves. This whole encounter has been quite a stretch for me. I'm usually the one to be discouraging Peeta's advances, not the other way around. Peeta's not discouraging me. Feeling a bit of bravery because of the fact that his eyes are still closed, I lean forward further until my lips hover over his. "That day might come." My voice shakes as a whisper. "However, that day is not today." It is my first and only attempt at being seductive. Unfortunately for my ego, Peeta responds in the worst possible way. His eyes snap open, his shoulders are shaking, and a quivering breath is escaping through his nose. He's laughing.

I pull back. "What?" I ask, suddenly offended.

"Were you being serious?"

"Oh my God," I groan.

"Are you blushing? I haven't seen you blush in a long time." His fingers touch my hot cheek. I try to flinch away. He holds me still. "What exactly were you trying to do?"

"I don't know. I was just…I was trying…to…to show you that I'm not…"

"Going to disappear," he repeats my earlier words.

"Yeah." All the electricity has gone out of the room in my embarrassment.

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to hurt your feelings."

I find it hard to smile or accept his apology. "I'm going to get the volunteer." I make a move to get up, but Peeta's arms wrap around me and our chests are pinned together once again.

"No, no, no! You're not going anywhere now that I have you right where I want you."

"I feel like an idiot," I whine.

"Don't. That was the cutest thing I've ever seen. You don't have to try with me, Katniss. Seeing you smile when you think no one is looking or sleeping next to you or just being able to touch you is…it means so much to me." And just like that, the room is buzzing with electricity again. It's made much easier now that some of Peeta's anxiety appears to have settled.

I revel in the way my heart speeds up just a little and the way my stomach bounces around beneath my naval. Peeta places a kiss at my hairline. Another on my ear. Another on my nose. I grow impatient. I tilt my head so he's forced to meet his lips with mine. It's warm and satisfying. The heat spreads through my whole body. His hands move from my back to my waist and continue down until they being running back and forth over my thighs. Our lips never stop moving and neither do his hands. Back and forth. Back and forth. Inching forward just a little more each time until he stops right below my hipbone and squeezes. I make a gasping sound, much like I did last night. My hips begin to move under the power of Peeta's strong hands. The movement feels natural and exciting, and coupled with the furious way our lips move, I feel dizzy. Peeta responds with a similar gasping sound I've never heard from him before. I smile at my small victory. I want to hear him make that sound again and again.

Peeta grasps my hips a little tighter, but doesn't stop me from rocking. Something suddenly ignites in the pit of my stomach. I wonder if Peeta is feeling the same thing. As I rock, the fire in my belly builds. I press down into him with a little more force, experimenting with the fire. We both gasp into each other's mouths. The fire has turned into a blaze.

Suddenly, there is loud knocking at the door and I throw myself backwards at the sound of a woman's voice. "Mr. Mellark! Time to get up!"

"I'm up! I'm up!" Peeta yells angrily, more than I've ever heard him.

"Five minutes!" the woman yells through the door.

Peeta leans back against his pillows and runs his hands through his hair a few times. His breathing is a little fast, but no more than mine is. "She and Effie would have been best friends," he growls.

Taking advantage of his moment of frustration I climb off of him and the bed to fetch his wheelchair. When he realizes what I've done, a disappointed, but adorable look crosses his face. It makes him look ten years old – like someone just stole his favorite toy. I smirk at him and his reaction, but he lights up again after I say, "Remember, we have the whole day."


	4. Crutch

A/N: I know I said the fourth chapter would be the last chapter, but what can I say, this section got away from me. I hope you like where it went. The benefit for the readers is there will be at least one more chapter after this one.

Thank you to everyone who reviewed or added this story their favorites or alerts! Also, a big thank you to the people at The Hunger Games Tribute (http://thehungergamestribute[dot]co[dot]cc/) and those at District 13 (http://community[dot]livejournal[dot]com/ourdistrict_13/) for recommending this story on their sites! Go check them out!

**Crutch **

After some prodding, some convincing, and a few kisses goodbye, I successfully get Peeta out the door and to his therapy session. When I'm alone I sit down on his bed. After a few moments I realize how ineffective the coffee was and let myself sleep. I fall asleep thinking of the things we can spend our day doing. Some are impossible. I think of the two of us playing a game of catch. I know Peeta enjoyed playing competitive games in school. I seem to have a memory of someone saying he was one best players on the soccer team. I can't say for certain because I didn't pay much attention to such things back then. I was more worried about what my mother and sister would eat at night. At any rate, it's very difficult for Peeta to take part in games like that anymore; maybe in a few more months. I think of us baking cookies; well, I think of me watching him bake cookies. The security on the food in the kitchen is even stricter than the medical supplies. The idea I spend the most time imagining is taking a walk with him at sunset, even though the surface of District 13 wouldn't provide much scenery. I forget how much I miss the sun. We couldn't go above ground if we wanted to. Every scene is a simple pleasure that remains unavailable to us. We won't be able to do anything outside of the confines of this room. I let my mind simmer on the fantasies anyway. Although this day was planned to bring up Peeta's spirits, there is no reason I can't take pleasure in it as well.

I'm roused by the sound of the door opening and the creaking noises of Peeta's wheelchair. When I open my eyes I'm confused because instead of sitting in his chair he's standing in the doorway held up by a pair of crutches.

"Hey there, sleepyhead. You get to sleep while I go work? That doesn't seem very fair," he says teasingly with an enamoring smile. I'm more captivated by the fact that he's standing upright.

"You're walking," I sigh through the lingering haze of my slumber. Luckily, Peeta was not rendered paralyzed as a result of the torture inflicted on him by the Capitol. We were assured he would walk again, but he lacked the strength to do so for some time. Slowly, he's been working his way back to walking again, but I've only seen him walk about ten feet without assistance. And usually he's too tired at the end of his therapy to walk at all. I notice a woman is standing behind him pushing an empty wheelchair. I presume she's the woman who interrupted us this morning.

"He wanted to show you to progress he's making, but he shouldn't overdo it. He still needs the chair," she says knowingly. Peeta rolls his eyes. His relationship with that chair has been rather unpleasant. I know he doesn't want to be confined to it any longer.

"Can we just focus on the good news here? I can walk a whole fifty feet without getting winded." Peeta sounds sarcastic, but he really should be pleased with his improvement. I jump out of bed, walk up to him, and place a kiss on his cheek.

"Well, I'm proud of you," I tell him.

Peeta just shakes his head. He can't take pride in these accomplishments, even if he should.

"I thought we could walk to the dining hall for lunch," he says brightly.

I want to question whether or not that is a good idea, but I ignore the cautious side of myself for a moment. I don't want to ruin his good mood. We both say thank you to the volunteer and leave the wheelchair behind in his room as we walk the next couple hundred feet to the dining hall. The pace is very slow and we pause somewhere in the middle to take a break. I have to get used to the new click-clack sound of the crutches hitting the concrete floor. Several people give us encouraging smiles as they pass us.

We speak very little as we eat. We're not really given a chance. Several people come up to our table and congratulate Peeta on his missing wheelchair. Everyone must be following his progress. I wish they wouldn't keep such a tight eye on him. Peeta puts enough pressure on himself to improve; he doesn't need the added stress. However, he seems content and is smiling more today than I've seen in days. Perhaps he's pondering all the things we could do with the rest of the day.

Peeta usually takes a nap after lunch, but of course, today he wants to skip it. I insist he needs his rest, especially after all the extra exercise he's had moving around the compound. I promise we'll still have plenty of time left to spend together when he wakes up. I suffer through his pouting face for about ten minutes until I climb into bed with him. After about fifteen minutes of running my fingers through his hair and humming softly to him, he's asleep.

This gives me approximately one hour to get things set up for our day. I'm unusually cheerful as I walk through the cold hallways. Smiling at people and saying hello to nearly everyone. It's such a change from the sullen mood I had for months where I would stare at the floor as I walked and never lifted my eyes to acknowledge anyone. I think people are definitely noticing the difference. They meet my eyes with a brief look of confusion before they politely return my smile.

I collect a few things to entertain us, but the most important part of the evening I am planning is a private dinner, which will also be the most difficult to organize. I'll have to convince the kitchen staff to let me have two person's worth of food and perhaps a little beyond that, and to let me take it back to Peeta's room. Any of these things would be thought of as a complete impossibility by most. Almost no one is allowed to eat outside the dining hall to avoid wasting or hording food. Every ounce of bread is accounted for, and more importantly, eaten. The only ones to get away with it are Haymitch or Plutarch or other people of importance. I've been able to convince them a few times, but I don't want to abuse my status. However, it won't be very special to either of us if we eat here. People are always talking to us or staring at us when we're in public. Hopefully, I won't be pushing my luck by requesting to have our meal alone.

I walk back into the dining hall, only an hour or so after leaving. Most of the room is clear of the lunch rush, which makes it much easier to notice the lovely bright blonde hair of my younger sister.

"Prim!" I yell across the room. Her head snaps in my direction. A look of in instant panic crosses over her face and a half-second later I realize why. Rory is sitting across from her with an equal amount of panic on his face. They must have eaten later in the day to avoid being seen by me. They didn't count on me returning. The two of them quickly compose themselves with their hands placed formally on their laps. They must have been holding hands across the table to change to arrange themselves in such awkward pose.

Prim is smiling, but looks apprehensive when I reach their table. Her eyes nervously dance toward Rory.

"Hello Rory," I say pleasantly.

"Hi Katniss," he says and then clears his throat.

Before Gale informed me of their new relationship, there is no way I would have suspected anything if they had just acted naturally, instead of looking like they've been caught doing something wrong. They've been friends just as long as Gale and I have been friends. It's completely natural and appropriate that they would want to spend time together. There is still an itch in my throat to tell them they are much too young for this. That they shouldn't be making promises to one another when they are barely fifteen years old. That they shouldn't be thinking of the future when the future is so uncertain. However, Prim is so different from me. Rory is different from Gale. Neither of them had to become the pragmatic adults of their household the way Gale and I did. We did everything we could to prevent them from having that responsibility. It caused Prim to become softer than me, not weaker, but gentler. And a thousand times more loving and open to the love of others. I venture the same has happened for Rory. It's no wonder she found someone much sooner than I did. She'll probably have a much better capacity to handle it than I ever did. As much as it makes me uncomfortable to see my sister doing something so grown up, I can't bring myself to discourage either of them.

"I heard Peeta was walking around the compound today," Prim says with a smile. News spreads remarkably fast around here.

"Yes, hopefully he doesn't pay for it later."

"It's good to see, regardless. It's amazing how much some positive energy can speed up the healing process." Prim has had so much medical training from my mother and now from volunteering in the medical wing she could easily be certified as a nurse. A vision of my sister as a well-dressed and confident doctor flashes behind my eyes. If only such a future were possible. If only I could make sure such a future were possible.

"Would you like to join us, Katniss?" Rory asks. The color has returned to his cheeks. He doesn't look as nervous as before. Perhaps he figures since I haven't yet berated him for going near my sister he thinks I don't know about their relationship yet. I nod and sit next to Prim.

We chat for a while about Rory's younger brother and sister. I've avoided talking to Gale for so long I don't know what has been going on with his family at all. Vick has a hardened desire to be like Gale and be a part of the fight, even though he isn't yet ten years old. They have found it difficult to deter him being that he only sees the war as a battle of good versus evil. They hope he doesn't come to a greater understanding than that. Posy could not be a sweeter child, but she's been ill several times this month. Hazelle and Prim think the lack of fresh air might be aggravating a respiratory problem. She wheezes in her sleep and has difficulty breathing when she runs around. Almost every adult from the Seam has some sort of respiratory problem, usually a heavy, disconcerting cough caused by living so close to the mines for so many years. But Posy is still so young. If we were in the Capitol, she'd have some easy surgery that would cure her asthma and all her problems would be gone. All we can do is tell her not to overexert herself. How do you tell a six year old not to run and play?

Rory suspiciously doesn't say much about himself. I can understand why. His most important news is that he's started a relationship with my sister. Suddenly, I'm utterly glad Prim has been there for them when I haven't been. I have no doubt she is a comfort to all of them; the natural caregiver that she is.

Eventually, Rory excuses himself to help his mother take care of Vick and Posy for a while. He gives Prim a meaningful look before he leaves. Prim offers him a small smile and blushes. The way her pink cheeks blend with her pale skin and blonde hair is absolutely beautiful. Even if I were to discourage Rory, it wouldn't be long until someone else took his place.

Prim and I sit in silence for a few moments. She bites her lip. I can tell she's thinking about revealing her secret. I decide to put an end to her dilemma.

"So when were you planning on telling me about you and Rory?"

Her mouth drops in shock. To be fair, until this encounter, she'd done a remarkable job of hiding it. I had no idea.

"Who told you?"

"Gale."

"Oh." She blushes again. I suppose she wasn't counting on Gale and me rekindling our friendship, not that she would be against it. It is just something she didn't see coming. "So what do you…what do you think?" she asks tentatively.

I'm able to keep my face serious, although on the inside I'm smirking at her concern over my opinion. How could I deny my sister anything that makes her happy? "At first I thought you and Rory were too young, but that really doesn't give you or him much credit," I explain. "Both of you have good hearts and I know when either of you cares for someone the feelings are genuine. Just look at the way Rory cares about his brothers and sister, and the way you care for the people in the hospital wing."

Prim's blush floods her face yet again.

"I trust you both to make good decisions," I tell her.

Her eyes light up in the most spectacular way. It's sweet and so innocent, just like last night when I promised Peeta we'd spend the day together. I'm unsure if I've ever seen such a look in my own eyes. Maybe when I saw Peeta standing in the doorway without his wheelchair.

"Really? You're happy for me?" she asks.

"Yes, I am. Although, I do wonder why you kept it from me."

Prim clears her throat when a small laugh flutters through. She collects herself by folding her hands on the table in front of her. She speaks quite seriously despite her momentary laugh. "For one, I know your opinion on romantic relationships has not always been positive."

I flinch and sit up a little straighter. Prim and I have never talked about my opinion of relationships. Ironically, the only person I've talked about that with is Gale, my male best friend. Prim ignores my reaction and continues.

"You've always thought relationships and marriage were foolish, possibly dangerous ideas."

She far too perceptive for her own good; or perhaps she's been spending too much time with Gale. "For me maybe, but you and I are not the same person," I argue. Prim is someone who is simply filled with kindness. I imagine it is difficult for her to act any differently. "And don't tell me you're thinking about marriage already."

"Specifically marrying Rory, no, but in an abstract sense, yes. I believe love is one of the things we are fighting for. You don't feel that way."

"I don't think it's that simple." Prim may understand the will the fight that drives this rebellion, but she doesn't understand the specifics of how it comes about. She doesn't have to listen in on meetings where we discuss how the food distribution into District 2 has been cutoff. Consequently the people are starving and thousands are dying. She doesn't know that District 10 fell victim to a firebomb attack, and although it wasn't decimated like 12 and 13, the casualties were astronomical. She hasn't had to listen to how our own spies, our own friends, have been tortured and murdered in the Capitol. When one is forced to listen to these stories over and over again, it becomes almost impossible to think of love as something we're fighting for. Most of us can only think of revenge now.

"So what do you think of marriage?" Prim interrupts my thoughts with her question. It strikes me as a silly thing to even consider when there are so many more important things happening, and I understand why Prim expected me to have a negative reaction to her news.

"Why are we even talking about this? You're not getting married anytime soon."

"No, _I'm_ not." She leans back in her chair and tucks her arms against her chest. Whatever she is implying, I don't consider because I'm struck dumb by the way she's spoken to me. I've never seen this side of my sister. I've never heard her speak on such topics in such an finely articulated way. She doesn't cover her face when she laughs anymore nor does she look down at her feet when she approaches an uncomfortable subject. She no longer sounds like the twelve year old girl who wore my hand-me-down clothes that were two sizes too big for her. She doesn't even look like that girl anymore. Her face is slimmer and her hair has grown longer. She's grown into a young woman's body, and even more than that, she speaks like a woman.

It makes my stomach ache to imagine how much I have missed between being in the Games and working with the rebellion. Even though her youth has passed by without me noticing, I should be proud of the girl sitting next to me. Amongst all this turmoil and hate, she's still as hopeful and kind as ever.

"You still haven't explained why you didn't tell me," I mutter.

"Well, I wasn't sure if you would approve because we're so young and because your opinion of relationships is—"

I flash her a stern look that tells her I no longer wish to discuss the topic.

"—what it is, but that wasn't my greatest concern. You have more than enough to worry about. Between taking care of Peeta and all your involvement in the rebellion, the last thing you needed was something else to stress over."

"I don't mind stressing over anything when it comes to you."

She smiles up at me and lifts her hand to push my hair behind my ears. Her touch is gentle and soft, and comforts me in a way I don't think I could comfort anyone. "You've been taking care of me for a long time and I can't express how much I love you for it. I know you'll never stop taking care of me. Rory takes care of me, too," she whispers at the end.

A spark of worry runs though me. It's difficult to explain it. Part of me wants to keep Prim safe and sheltered, but I realize that simply isn't a possibility. As much as I want to protect her, I can't shield her from this. It may even hurt her more to try.

"Then I guess I'll just have to love him even more for that," I say.

"I was sure you'd say I was making a big mistake, that I'm too young."

"Things are different now. You've been forced to grow up very fast. From what I've witnessed, you've done so beautifully."

"Thank you." The blush on her cheeks returns and I can't help but be fond of it. It makes her look younger. I don't think I will ever stop seeing my sister that way entirely.

"But promise me you'll be careful. Broken hearts are not easy to mend."

"I know. My heart has been broken before," she admits easily.

"When?" I sputter. How could I have possibly missed this?

"Once when I watched you climb the stage in the square to take my place in the Games. Again when they announced you would return in the Quell. Watching you, not knowing if you would live, it was indescribable. Gale and…Rory…they helped me through it."

I could never thank Gale and his brother enough. "I'm glad they could be there for you."

"I thought that was the most painful thing I could endure."

"There's something else?"

"Before Peeta was rescued, you were so lost. I didn't know how to help you and you didn't seem to want to help yourself. It was like watching you fade away before my eyes." This was the time in my life that I described to Gale. The time that is a blur to me now; the time that I can't fully remember. When my mother fell into the same kind of depression after she lost my father, I felt angry toward her. I was angry she would give up and abandon her daughters in their time of need. I did the same thing to my family and my friends when I lost Peeta. But did Prim harbor any anger toward me? No. Her heart is too full and too giving to ever develop anger toward someone who was suffering. She was worried and frightened, and it was her fear that snapped me from my haze. Like many others, I was saved by her.

I quickly wrap my arms around her. "I love you."

"I love you, too," she says over my shoulder.

"And I _am_ happy for you," I reassure her. There is no one on this planet I wish more happiness for. Prim is one of my greatest reasons for fighting this battle. It seems I have been fighting for love when I didn't even know it.

"Thank you. Speaking of happy," she says as she pulls away. "You looked quite happy when you walked in here."

"Oh, yes. I was actually in the midst of getting some things together for Peeta and me. I promised him we would spend the day together."

"Don't you spend every day together?"

"Yes, but not much of that time is spent alone."

"Oh, I see." She lifts one eyebrow suggestively. My jaw drops slightly. I wonder what she thinks Peeta and I do in his room when we are alone. I hope she doesn't listen to the gossip of the compound. "Well, I'll tell the rest of the medical staff you do not want to be disturbed. What else do you need?"

"I was actually going to try and get some food from the kitchen. I'm not sure if they're going to be willing."

"I'll help you."

In Prim's naturally sweet demeanor and gentle tone, she explains the romantic evening Peeta and I have planned to the entire kitchen staff. The situation she describes is much more dreamy and extravagant than anything I had planned. The staff absolutely melts at hearing Prim's description. It's amazing considering the people of thirteen did not witness the love story Peeta and I had in the Games. The usual harshness of the staff leaks away and they find special things for us to eat. In addition to the usual rice, green beans, oatmeal, and bottle of water, they add two chicken breasts, three apples, a cup of spiced nuts, and an entire loaf of fresh bread. It's much more than anyone should get in a single meal. They find me a basket to fill, give me encouraging touches to my back or shoulder, and go back to their work. I glance at Prim who is holding the beautiful loaf of bread in her hands. She has one of the biggest and most suspicious grins on her face. She must have been hiding her growing relationship extremely well, because if I had ever seen her smile like that I would have instantly known something was up.

"What are you smiling about?" I inquire.

"Oh, nothing," she says as she wraps the loaf up in worn but clean cloth and places it in the basket.

"I would like to know what has my little sister smiling like sun has broken through the clouds."

She shrugs her shoulders casually but the grin remains the same. "It's nothing. It's only a loaf of bread, Katniss."

I'm stuck contemplating what she is thinking as she quickly fills the basket with the rest of the items. She hooks her arm with mine and we move toward the exit. Just as we are about to pass through we're stopped by an exhausted Haymitch who appears in the threshold. His eyes are bloodshot and he needs to use the door jamb to hold himself up.

"Haymitch, you're alive," I can't help but say. If he is alive, it's just barely.

"Coffee!" he shouts, ignoring me. His voice is hoarse and raspy. What he really needs is some water and about three days worth of sleep. I used to be uncomfortable having Prim around him when he is strung out like this, but I realize she's seen and lived through much worse. Even as I look at her now, she's not upset by him. If anything, she looks concerned. She goes to one of the refrigerators, grabs a water bottle, and forces it into his hand.

"Before you do anything else, drink this. I swear, you'd die of dehydration standing in a lake." She brushes past him and exits the kitchen. I can't help but snicker. Haymitch blinks several times, still in a complete stupor. He examines the bottle for a second and scoffs, evidently disappointed the clear liquid is water and not liquor. He smacks his lips a few times before he finally opens the bottle and drinks a quarter of it down. He catches sight of me while I'm still laughing, and narrows his eyes at me.

"You Everdeen girls are all alike. You think you know everything."

"What are you doing awake? You should go back to bed."

"Something came up," he says gruffly.

"Fine, but you need to at least keep yourself moderately healthy. Part of that is sleeping regularly. You're no good to us on four days with no sleep."

"Yeah, yeah. Where are you headed little red riding hood?" He gestures to the basket of food in my hands.

"Peeta and I are spending the day together, alone."

"Interesting. I suppose I should tell you what's going on now then?"

"If you have to." I can't imagine what could be so important to tell me. I don't have much say in what goes on in the rebellion. I'm the symbol, but that's about the extent of my influence.

"I have to. Just give me a second to get something into my system."

A few minutes later we're sitting at a table. The room in entirely empty. Haymitch has a bowl of oatmeal before him and a cup of dried apples, as well as a huge mug of black coffee. He makes a face as he sips it. Will the people of District Twelve ever like the taste of coffee?

"Okay, just tell me. Peeta will be waking up from his nap soon."

"Have a little patience, sweetheart. What I have to tell you is important." He nibbles on an apple slice. I tap my fingers against the table. "So you know about the food strike in eleven?"

"Yes," I respond. What many people in the districts failed to realize for many years is that the Capitol depends on its districts to function. The Capitol wanted the people of Panem to believe they could just as easily destroy their districts like they did thirteen, but in most cases, it would not be in the Capitol's best interest to do so. For example, if the Capitol were to destroy District 11, the country's main farming community, the Capitol would lose a huge percentage of raw material to make food. The same can be said of any district. The rebellion decided to use this logic and told the people of the eleven to deliberately destroy their own crops and farming machines. They did the same in District 3 and District 4, destroying electronic factories and countless fishing boats. We knew the Capitol would never destroy these resources if they didn't have to, so the rebellion did the job for them. It was a risky strategy, especially for eleven, because it left the people with no food to eat.

"The point of all of it was the drain the Capitol of its resources, and it is working. But it's not working fast enough." Destroying those resources did hurt the Capitol, but it hurt the people of Panem at the same time. As it stands, the rest of Panem is going to starve to death before the Capitol does. "We need to make a significant dent within the Capitol itself." Haymitch bites into another slice of apple.

This news surprises me. We have been avoiding taking the fight to the Capitol because we stand so little chance of succeeding. It's always been the best strategy to force the Capitol to go to the districts where they have less of an advantage or to attempt to drain them of supplies.

"So, you're talking about launching another strike?" I presume. There's only been one strike upon the Capitol thus far. I wasn't a part of it, but I sure as hell wanted to be. "What's the target?"

"A hospital. We need to take out their primary source of medical care. The rate at which they can recoup is too fast." The medical capabilities are perhaps the Capitol's greatest asset. Peeta is a perfect example of this. Here, it will take him several months to be fully well again, whereas were he in the Capitol, he would be healed in a matter of days. I can understand Haymitch's logic, but after volunteering in the medical wing for so long, I know how many people go into running it.

"A hospital? We can't do that. There is going to be innocent people in that building. Doctors, nurses, surgeons, children! Why should they have to die?" I shout at him. He stares down into his dark mug of coffee.

"It's a war, Katniss," he says lowly.

I know his callousness isn't as real as it seems, but it angers me all the same.

"Most of it is set up there already; we just got the notifications this morning," he explains. "All they need is the explosives to make it happen."

"And that's where we come in," I snap. Haymitch ignores me.

"There's also a chance we can get to Annie Cresta. She was moved there recently."

Annie. Finnick's Annie. The woman he is wandering the compound in an unending state of depression for. One of the few people the Capitol hasn't murdered. Some say they keep her alive purely as bait seeing as she doesn't know anything about the rebellion.

"Are you going to let Finnick go?" I inquire quietly.

"We don't want to," he responds. I'm not surprised. The one mission the rebellion has taken to the Capitol was the mission that saved Peeta. I was not allowed to go. The primary goal of that mission was not actually to rescue Peeta, but to put spies in place and get information on the security levels of each district and several buildings in the Capitol. Getting hold that information was deemed more important than Peeta's life. If things went according to plan, Peeta would also be rescued, but if they didn't, he would have been left behind. As much as I wanted to go with, I was not trusted by the team to be stable enough to stick to the plan if they couldn't get to Peeta. Fortunately, everything did go to plan and Peeta is with me now. Finnick was one of the members of that team. And now, the same situation that was presented to me is being presented to him. He is going to have to stay behind and wait until someone brings his Annie to him.

"But this team does need five people," Haymitch says as he finally takes a scoop of his oatmeal.

"You want me to go," I say flatly.

"Yes."

"I thought it was too dangerous for me to be seen." Besides the fact that I was "emotionally compromised," I was also too recognizable to take part in the mission. Everyone in the Capitol knew my face.

"We're banking on you being seen now. Most people believe you're dead. That's what the Capitol is telling them."

"You need my face to lift their spirits and to blow up a hospital in the process."

"Essentially."

My stomach drops. I've expressed my desire for revenge a thousand times as well as my willingness to fight. But to be faced with it brings on an unexpected response. All I can think of is the fantasy I had this morning of Peeta and I holding hands as we walked at sunset. It plays in my head over and over again.

"I can't force you to do anything, sweetheart." He dips an apple into the oatmeal and swirls it around a bit. "But let me say this, Finnick went on that mission knowing he wasn't going to come back with Annie. He went there for you."

"You don't have to tell me the ways in which I owe Finnick Odair," I bite back.

"Fair enough."

I stand up. "Is that everything?"

"Yeah. This is happening soon. In the next seventy-two hours."

"I understand." I grasp my basket and hang it over my arm. I begin to take the necessary steps away from the table.

"Enjoy your evening _alone_," Haymitch calls out.

I keep walking. The ground begins to feel uneven. I fight not to stumble. I keep my eyes on the ground until my eyes go blurry. I don't know how I know I've reached Peeta's room, but when I look up, it's there. I throw open the door and close it behind me as quickly as I can. I want to lock myself away in this room. I want to disappear. I slip down the wall and hit the floor when the room begins to spin.

Peeta is still snoozing. His low snores fill the otherwise quiet room. I relax in the soft pattern of it. I notice his crutches leaning against the wall. Is there anything that can hold me up?


	5. Stitches

A/N: A big thank you to SubieC and ohaleno4 for doing some pre-reading on this big fat chapter for me. You ladies are awesome!

This chapter is rated-M for sexual content.

Reviews are always appreciated. Enjoy.

**Stitches**

While bracing myself against the wall I slowly inch my way up so I'm eventually standing. I pick up the basket of food and various activities and set it on the nightstand. I have to concentrate as I walk for fear that the ground is suddenly going to give out beneath me.

Now that I'm standing near him, mere inches away, I can't tear my eyes from him. He looks much younger when he's asleep. I suppose most everyone does. The stress of the day is missing. I'm reminded of the boy who threw bread at my feet so many years ago. A rush of warmth runs through my limbs, which have become cold after sitting on the floor for so long. The sound of his breathing is especially reassuring to me. It has been since he was rescued. The sound of it is low and soft, but so emphatically vital. I lose myself in the quiet sound, but my worries remain.

_How to tell him? How to even begin? _

I blow on my hands to warm them before I gently run my fingers across his face and through his hair.

"Peeta," I say at a low volume. "Peeta, wake up." I brush the hair away from his forehead. It disobediently falls back into place. I move my hand to stroke his cheek with my thumb. Peeta exhales loudly and blinks a few times against the dim light in the room. His mouth melts into a sleepy grin after his eyes focus on me.

"Hi," he says through a yawn.

"Hi." I smile, but it's merely the smile that comes to me whenever I see such a content look on Peeta.

He throws his arms above his head to stretch. His knuckles skim the steel wall the head of his bed is butted against. "What time is it?" he groans.

"A little after three."

His arms drop down alongside him. His eyebrows knit together. "Three? Already?"

"You really exerted yourself today," I remind him. He was the one who insisted on walking on crutches when the nurse told him to the use the chair.

"I guess that was a mistake. I'm sorry. I'm wasting our day."

"You needed to rest." I sit down on the edge of the bed so we're facing each other. Peeta pushes himself up into a sitting position. He scoots forward so our hips are basically parallel. This position seems a little strange to me but I don't say anything because all I can really think about is how only a few weeks ago I would have had to assist him in these small actions. He is so much better, so much stronger than he was when he first arrived here. Then, he was just a breath away from death. It's a miracle he's here with me now. "What would you like to do?" I ask, trying to make my voice sound as casual as possible.

Without missing a beat, he quickly leans forward and captures me in a kiss. I see now that his body positioning was strategic. I feel him smiling in his kiss. He's so openly excited about the time we have to spend together. I don't think I have it in me to disappoint him. Not yet. Not when everything is pleasant and hopeful for once.

Peeta is slow and tender at first; the kind of kiss that warms me up from head to toe. Eventually, it turns playful as he pecks my lips a few times before moving onto my nose and my cheeks.

"Besides that," I mumble while his lips travel to the skin below my ear. I have to close my eyes when he kisses me there. Otherwise, he might see my eyes roll back into my head.

"What else is there?" he mumbles back.

While I still have a handle on my breathing, I place my hands on his shoulders and gently push him back. Peeta narrows his eyes at me; his grin is adorably mischievous "I have food for later," I say as I stand up to show him what I brought for us. "I found some paper and some pencils for you. How about you draw for me?" The paper is sheets of homemade recycled paper Hazelle came up with for Posy and Vick with discarded office papers. It's bumpy, porous, and a matte gray color, but it works. The pencils are short, stubby things I sharpened roughly with a knife. It's nothing compared to what Peeta used to work with to create his paintings. Even I had better school supplies than this.

"I haven't sketched in a long time. I might be a little rusty," Peeta says modestly as he takes the paper from me.

"That's alright. We need something to line these walls with. We don't have much of a view," I tease. There isn't a much of a view anywhere in the compound. No windows; just mile after mile of gray walls.

Peeta settles against the wall at the head of the bed. I shift into my usual place beside him. I ineffectively attempt to fluff his flat, worn pillows into something more comfy. I use Peeta's shoulder as my pillow instead. It doesn't seem to impede his drawing, and even if it does, he doesn't mention it. He kisses the top of my head once, stares silently at his blank paper for minute, and then lets the graphite slide gracefully across the paper.

A few minutes pass with no sound other than the clanking ventilation and the sound of a pencil scratching against the paper. I don't pay much attention to the drawing unfolding before me, knowing I don't have much of an artist's eye. I'll have a greater appreciation for the finished product. I watch the way his hands move instead. Some gestures are long and fluid while others and quick and sudden. The tip of the pencil jumps now and then because of the uneven surface of the paper, sending his hand in a different direction, but he never complains. He doesn't curse his unpracticed ability or his lack of control or his low-quality drawing instruments. He works through it. He finds a way to make the drawing work anyway.

I want to make _this _work; Peeta and me. I want to be able to get past this bump in our path. We've made it through so much already. The Games, the tour, his torture in the Capitol, his illness, and now…we're faced with yet another challenge. The very thing Peeta has feared for weeks. I want to tell him, but I know it will ruin everything we had planned for the day. It won't be happy and carefree like Peeta thinks it is now. We deserve this time. So instead of talking about leaving, about risking my life and breaking his heart, I simply ask about something I want to know.

"Did you play soccer in school?"

"Uh…yeah, a little. Why? Is soccer part of the day's plans? I could maybe be the goalie," he says with a lighthearted smirk.

I blush and realize how arbitrary that question must have sounded without seeing the connections in my head. "No. When I was thinking of things for us to do I tried to remember what I knew about you before we officially met. I remember hearing once in school that you were good at soccer. I wanted to know if my memory was correct," I explain. I mention nothing of my desire to stave off reality for awhile, but nothing I said was dishonest.

The pencil pauses as Peeta reminisces about the days we rarely think of or talk about at all anymore. It is hard to remember there _was_ a time before the Games. "I would play every so often during school hours. I didn't play in the leagues outside of school because I never would have made it to the games. I always had to go home and work in the bakery."

"Did you like working in the bakery?"

"Yeah, I did. It was hard work, but there are jobs that are much harder. Compare decorating cookies to working in the mines and there's no contest as to which job is easier." He shrugs his shoulders casually and gets back to scratching at the paper.

"Maybe you could work in the kitchen when you're feeling better," I suggest. "The bread they bake isn't half as good as yours."

"Maybe," Peeta says with an additional shrug. "I don't know if they'll let me near their ovens."

"The ovens? Yes. The dough? Probably not." We both laugh. "Did you ever want to do anything else?"

"I don't know. I guess not." Peeta sighs. "I didn't want to work in the mines and growing up I appreciated the fact that I had the option to do something else. What did you want to do?" he tosses the question back to me.

"You mean black market poacher isn't an occupation?" I say dryly. Peeta chuckles in response. What would I have been if not for the Games? I was never going to be a healer like my mother. I was as petrified of the mines as Peeta was. I wasn't great at sewing or cooking or anything domestic, and I was too poor to get into any of the mercantile businesses. Hunting was the only thing in my life that felt right, and there was nothing else I could have done that would have guaranteed my family food without owing someone else in the process. As long as things had stayed the same—meaning Cray and Darius kept their heads turned the other way—I would have been dragging my kills into the Hob for as long as I could.

"You were very good at it," he says, smiling.

"When is your birthday?" I change the subject again.

"In the fall."

"Huh…mine's in the spring. I'm older than you," I say as I poke him in the arm with my pointer finger.

"Don't tell me I missed your birthday," he says glumly. Something as small and silly as that _would_ break Peeta's thoughtful heart.

"Don't worry. I think _I_ missed it."

"Well, we can celebrate our birthdays together. Maybe if I build up some good will with the kitchen staff they'll let me bake a cake."

"That would be nice." _If I make it back for your birthday._

"What's with all the questions today?"

There's so much I don't know, too much. My mother, or any mother, would worry that I shouldn't be dedicating myself to Peeta when I know so little personal information about him. I don't worry. I know every little thing he reveals to me will only validate what I already know about him. Peeta is too good, he's too innocent, and he's too wonderful to have done anything that would make me think poorly of him. To be fair, we've seen one another at our absolute worst. We were together when each of us committed murder, and still, I think of him as innocent. People would say I've just been blinded by my feelings for him. I know it isn't true because I'm not the only person who feels this way about him. Haymitch, Prim, even Gale knows it. With the impending mission on my mind, I know I have very little time to learn everything there is to know about him. I simply have to know.

"Nothing," I say after a few seconds have passed. "I just want to know."

"Okay," he concedes easily. "What else?"

"What was your favorite subject in school?"

"I don't think I had one. Just had some classes I disliked a little less than the others. I think I might have liked literature if the books we read weren't only about heroes and heroines of the Capitol." Peeta shakes his head in disgust. "Same thing with history. Teaching us the same lessons about Panem and how much we owe the Capitol year after year."

I understand what he means. School wasn't so much about learning as much as it was about giving children something to do during the hours from eight until three. If not for those classes we would have been working or helping in our family's businesses like Peeta did with the bakery. Technically, schooling prevented the creation of a labor force made up of children, which would have been an absolutely shameful thing to allow, even in District 12. However, as Peeta said, the education was nearly pointless because we learned next to nothing. It did nothing to help break people out of their class. For example, I was born, lived in, and would have died in the Seam if not for the Games.

"If we had art classes those would have been your favorite," I guess, trying to keep the conversation from becoming depressing.

"Probably, but they'd never teach art in school. Not exactly a practical skill. Being able to learn and practice drawing and painting for a little while was pretty much the only good thing to come out of the Games." The list of good things to come out of the Games definitely depended on one's point of view.

I finally take a moment to glance down at the light drawing Peeta has sketched out. I can see the face of a young woman glancing over her shoulder. Her eyes are dark and intensely focused, which contrasts captivatingly with the slight smirk on her lips. There is also the beginning of a tell-tale braid flowing down her back.

"Peeta! You're drawing me," I accuse with annoyance dripping in my voice.

"I like drawing you," he defends as he adds a few more definitive lines to my eyes.

"Everyone knows what I look like." My fingers slide over the lines, accidently smudging them a little. I don't have much of an artist's touch either. Peeta has probably drawn me over a hundred times, but I can't help feeling like his interpretation of me is still wrong. Surely, he captures something remarkable, and it is an excellent likeness, but he sees _me_ as the one who can do no wrong. He couldn't be further from the truth. "Draw something else."

"Fine. What should I draw?" he asks while flipping the piece of paper over to the blank side.

"Draw something we might forget," I half-whisper. Peeta sighs before he begins to draw again. I'm asking a lot with this request. As much as we want this fight, this rebellion, as much as we know there's no way to undo what's happened, it's difficult to send your mind back to that place. Where we were born. Where we were once happy. Where nearly all of our friends and family died. I hug his arm tightly as I listen to the pencil move across the page again. "Tell me about your family. I don't know anything about your brothers."

Peeta could refuse if he wanted, if it's too painful for him to talk about. He pauses for a few seconds before he speaks. His voice is steady. "My brother, Miche, was the oldest. He was working in the bakery still, but he was trying his hand at trading textiles so he could start his own business."

"He didn't like the bakery?"

"He liked it fine, but he was looking to get married and the bakery might be able to support two families, but if all three of us had our own families it wouldn't be enough. Although, after the Games it didn't matter. I had all that money anyway."

"Who was the girl?"

"Grace Fielding." He glances down at me to see if I recognize the name. I shake my head. "She was something. Tall, blonde, daughter of a textile merchant, a little airheaded, but genuinely kind. My mother _hated _her," Peeta says with a laugh.

"Why?"

"She was very nice girl, very pretty, and she really cared about Miche, but on paper she would have made a terrible wife. She couldn't cook or sew or clean to my mother's satisfaction. She actually wasn't allowed anywhere near the ovens when she visited. I swear, every ounce of dough she would touch was guaranteed to burn." She sounds like the kind of girl I wouldn't have liked much either—someone who was practically helpless. I can't hold that against Peeta's mother.

"Would your mother have liked me?" I inquire.

"Well…," Peeta begins. He scratches his cheek with the end of the pencil that once held an eraser on it. "My mother didn't really like anyone," he says lowly.

I realize she would have disliked me for coming from the Seam, but I was a victor for God's sake. I suppose there was simply no way to satisfy the woman. "And your other brother?" I ask to change the subject.

"Rilee. He was mostly a pain. He was a liar and a scam artist. He was always trying to get me in trouble," Peeta grumbles.

His relationship with his brothers wasn't anything like my relationship with Prim. I wanted her to succeed in everything she tried, and she usually did. Everything I did was for her benefit. I don't mention this though because I have no place degrading Peeta's memory of them. Miche and Rilee were _his_ brothers. Peeta had not yet had a chance to properly mourn them. He could do so however he wanted to. "Do you miss them?" I tentatively ask.

Peeta sets the drawing limply on his lap and slouches against the wall, his head leaning toward me. "Yeah. I do. They weren't perfect, but they looked out for me, especially after the Games. They didn't know what was going on, but they cared. I loved my brothers."

"I wish I could have met them."

"Me too." Peeta goes quiet. His eyes glaze over as he stares blankly at the page in front of him. "I miss them a lot," he repeats. It's as if he just realized they're gone.

"I'm sorry," I say as I snuggle into him. I still have my mother and sister. I still have Gale and his family. Peeta is alone. When I leave, there will be no one here to protect him.

Peeta exhales loudly and swallows thickly. "It's okay. You're my family now, right?"

"Of course," I answer quickly. "And Prim and my mother. They care about you, too." They may not feel the same way I do about Peeta, but they'll look after him when I'm gone. They can make sure he gets healthy. They can keep him safe in case I…

"And Haymitch. Don't forget him," Peeta interrupts my thoughts.

"Yes, don't want to forget Haymitch," I mutter.

"See? I have more family than I know what to do with." And suddenly, his hand is dancing across the page again.

* * *

"I talked to Gale this morning," I say over a crisp apple I'm biting into. Peeta is doing the same with his own apple. Somehow, after getting up to retrieve the apples from the basket and climbing back into the bed, I find myself in a new sitting arrangement with Peeta. Now, I'm sitting comfortably between his legs with my back resting against his chest. It makes it impossible for him to draw anymore, but he doesn't seem to care.

"Really? You two haven't talked in a while. How did that go?"

"It went better than I expected, not that I was expecting to talk with him. It kind of just happened. I think we're friends again." I wonder how he'll react. He has admitted to being jealous of Gale in the past, and we haven't talked about him much since coming to thirteen. Nothing beyond Gale's actions in the rebellion.

"I'm glad."

"You are?" I ask rudely with a mouth full of fruit.

"Yes. I know it's been eating away at you for weeks. I know you didn't want to see your friend suffer."

It's incredible that Peeta understands this so easily. I decide not to question it and count my blessings. Then again, it is _Peeta's_ bed that I sleep in at night; it is _his_ arms I'm wrapped up in right now. Perhaps he takes that for what it is, as he should.

"Who do think Gale is meant for?" I surprise myself with my eagerness to know the answer to this question. In the past, I was jealous of the girls who took Gale's attention from me. Gale was certain for so much time that he and I were meant for one another. Hell, even I thought that from time to time. In one life, we could have been together, but it's not this one. And as much as I know part of Gale still belongs to me, he's not mine to keep. More than anything, I want his happiness. And if I could have Peeta in this nightmare war zone we lived in, then Gale deserved to have someone as well.

"Someone who challenges him."

"Gale is always ready for a fight, isn't he?" I muse.

"The guy eats, sleeps, and breathes it."

"He had to learn to fight for everything. He and his family wouldn't have survived any other way."

"I have a lot of respect for him. I would venture to guess the girl he ends up with is the girl he argues with most." He's right. Gale needs someone who is self-reliant, but giving at the same time. Someone who doesn't surrender. She'll fight for what she thinks is right, and that includes a willingness to fight with Gale if she believes he is wrong. And perhaps, someone who can show affection effortlessly. After all the mixed messages he had to suffer while having feelings for me, he deserves someone like that so he never has to doubt how his true love feels about him.

Silently, I pick up the discarded drawing Peeta was previously scribbling on. He has drawn the meadow in District 12 with intricate detail. Spring flowers and tall grasses. Even the hole in the electric fence is there. I'm surprised. I never would have thought he knew the meadow all that well. Standing alongside it, once again, is a thin woman dressed in hunting boots with a hood pulled over her head. "Hey! You drew me again," I whine.

"I drew the meadow. I can't help it if you were standing nearby on this particular day."

I roll my eyes at him. We finish eating and I get up to throw the apple cores away. Peeta only holds me down for a brief kiss to my temple before he releases me. I walk back to him slowly, a new string of questions forming in my head. I stop at the end of the bed and lean over the footboard.

"Can I ask you something?"

"Of course," he says while organizing the drawing papers and setting them on the side table. Apparently, he's decided the drawing portion of the day is done.

"Even if it's something I don't deserve to know?"

His eyebrows come together in confusion, but he's still smiling. His mind is spinning with the kind of things I could potentially ask. His head is probably betting on some inappropriate topics. I am thinking of something inappropriate, but not in the way he's thinking. He lifts up his hand in a gesture for me to take it and rejoin him. I don't openly refuse, but I stand up straight and push my hair behind my ears. My tense body language speaks volumes. His smile falls into concern. I hate myself for making that happen.

"What is it, Katniss?"

"After the Games, when we were on our way back to District 12, before I told you I didn't have feelings for you, what did you think was going to happen?" I say as quietly as possible. Even the whirring sound from the ventilation is louder than the volume of my voice.

"For us?"

I nod.

Without taking a moment to think, Peeta stammers as he attempts an answer. "I…I guess I thought…we…you would—"

"You don't have to answer. I shouldn't have asked," I interrupt. I take another step back away from the bed. This startles him.

"No, Katniss." He starts to get out of the bed and reaches for his crutches. I don't want him to tire himself out so I rush to his side to stop him. Our hands meet on one of the crutches. I try to pull away, but he deliberately holds onto me. I wonder if it was all an act to get me to come to him. I'm so predictable these days. Peeta's legs are dangling off the side of the bed. He pulls me between them and drapes his arms around my waist. I give up fighting him, but I can't bring myself to look at him—not after the awful information I just requested of him. I have no place asking such a thing.

"I can answer this," he assures me. "Katniss, I thought…I _believed_ you loved me. I wanted to believe that over everything else. I was blinded by it. I didn't see any of the danger involved. You were more than right to be concerned." He pushes my hair back behind my shoulders so I can no longer hide behind it. "I thought that we'd move into our new houses and we'd just be together. It sounds stupid when you say it out loud."

"It's not stupid," I murmur under my breath.

"It was stupid to oversimplify it like that. Even if you had loved me back then it wouldn't have been easy. We still would have been suffering from nightmares, we'd still be on the Capitol's hit list, and you'd still be worried about hurting Gale. No matter what, it would have been complicated."

I nod again in agreement. "Do you…"

He lifts up my chin to catch my eyes. "Regret it?" He completes my question. His stark blue eyes are honest. As good of a liar as Peeta is, he never lies to me. "God, I will never regret loving you." I remember how declarations like this used to make me feel guilty and uncomfortable. There's no room for guilt now. There isn't even any reason for it. Peeta can love me as honestly and openly as he's always wanted to. And now, I can let him love me that way. I want to wrap it up and keep it for safe from all the bad things in the world that threaten it. Things outside the door that are telling me I have to leave the sanctuary of Peeta's arms. Things that will keep me from coming back.

It's not enough. It's not enough time.

I lean forward a few inches to kiss him. I never know the right things to say in these situations, so I find it best to just let my actions speak for themselves. Peeta holds onto me tightly. I want to stay.

When we part he takes a heavy breath. He shakes his head from the intangible fog that has formed around us. I take advantage of his daze to lightheartedly remind him of the question. "You didn't answer the question."

"Uh…," he chuckles. "The answers are kind of embarrassing."

I laugh. I actually laugh like a normal girlfriend. Too bad the situation is still wildly out of the realm of normal. "Really? Now you have to tell me!" I lightly shout with a gentle shake of his shoulders.

"Okay! Okay!" he gives in. "What did I think?" He folds his lips inward and mulls it over for a moment. "Well, I thought we would walk down the street in twelve, holding hands. Having people greet us, and congratulate us, and wish us well. I thought about taking you places in town; to restaurants and shops. To all the places we were never able to go because we couldn't afford it."

I had experienced some of those things with Peeta, but they never gave me the joy he once hoped for. Everything about our relationship after the first Games was false and scripted. It is wonderful to no longer be pretending. "That sounds nice," I admit with a smile.

"I had one vision in particular where I would wait in my house until I saw your mother's light go out and then I'd sneak into your bedroom."

"And we'd do what?"

"You know, talk," he murmurs sheepishly.

"Sure, sure," I say with a skeptical nod of my head.

"I was going to introduce you to my brothers and my parents and they were going to be so proud of us."

I can see it. Peeta pulls me into the foyer of his house. I am reluctant and shy of course and hide behind him as we enter. His brothers smile and tease us, but ultimately, they're proud their brother came home after acting so admirably in the Games. His mother is cold, like always, but polite. Maybe she just has a difficult time expressing how much she loves her sons. Maybe she fears getting too close to people she could easily lose. We all find ways to protect ourselves. She might even embrace having me around, considering how little she thinks of Miche's fiancée. Peeta's father is welcoming and sweet. I understand where all of Peeta's goodness came from. I can see all of it. If only it could have happened. If not for my sake, then for Peeta's. He didn't get to experience a single fantasy he described. I suddenly find myself grieving for something I wasn't aware I wanted.

"Peeta…" I breathe. I cup his sad face in my hands. I want him to know I'm mourning this, too.

"The one thing I thought about most was a vision of spending every single summer night with you, lying outside in the grass until the stars came out. Just holding you and waiting to see you smile." His fingers graze my cheek.

I touch my forehead to his. _How?_ How will I leave?

"The thing is," he begins with a nervous laugh, "I had that dream before the Games."

I pull back to see sincerity in his eyes. I wish I could smile for him, but I'm overwhelmed. If I open my mouth I won't be able to stop the deluge of my regret for leaving him. His voice fills the silence. He'll never know how grateful I am.

"I've loved you for a long time, Katniss."

* * *

I tell him about Prim and Rory. He just smiles and thinks it's cute. I suppose it's cute. I didn't think it was very cute when I first heard about it. I am pleased that I at least found out about it before he did.

"Checkmate. Are you letting me win?" Peeta inquires warily. We're playing chess with a makeshift set someone carved up who knows how many years ago. The pieces were painted at one time, but much of the paint has been rubbed away. The only way to tell between the rook and the knight is by checking if the word "horse" is carved into the side, even though it doesn't resemble a horse at all.

"No. I wasn't." I respond.

"Good. And since I won, it's my turn to pick the next activity."

"What did you have in mind?"

He immediately shoves the board between us aside, sending pieces smacking against the cold, concrete floor.

"Peeta!" Before I can scold him further his mouth is on mine. He can really move quickly when he puts his mind to it. He's on his hands and knees, leaning over where the chess board used to be. I know it must be uncomfortable for him, so I slowly push my body forward, allowing him to sit back on his heels, and then to lie down on his back—a very precarious thing to do while keeping my lips connected to his. Laying back makes things easier for him, but that isn't entirely my plan. I can be strategic about my body positions as well. Suddenly, I break away, jumping a few feet from the bed. His face is an endearing mixture of confusion and impatience.

"Hey! Where are you going?"

"We _can_ do that," I tease. I take a few more steps backward. "But you have to catch me first."

Peeta sits up and smacks his lips. He sets his hands on his hips, his shoulders slouching. "Have you not noticed the crutches? The wheelchair?"

"I noticed someone was bragging he could walk fifty feet without getting winded," I taunt back.

"Cruel woman," he accuses in a husky voice, but at the same time he's reaching for his crutches. His eyes are lively and excited. He's right. This is a little cruel, but there is a reason for it. Peeta usually engages in some light exercise in the afternoon, be it a walk or some weightlifting. I know how important it is he keeps up with it and so does he, but I'm not about to suggest we leave our fortress.

"Come and get me." I don't need to run from him; he moves too awkwardly with his crutches. At least he's moving. This is really all for play anyway. I jump over the bed when he gets too close. I duck under his arms when he reaches for me. I throw a chair between us to block his path. We laugh a lot. Quite a few meaningless threats get tossed around. The room is so small we make a dozen laps around it within fifteen or so minutes. Eventually, I get trapped in a corner with seemingly no escape.

"Gotcha," he says mischievously. Suddenly, I'm wrapped in his arms and we're stumbling toward the bed. His crutches crash loudly against the floor when he drops them. Neither one of us cares. The bed has never felt so comfortable, even with Peeta's body covering mine. Perhaps it's _because_ Peeta's body is covering mine. His lips move hungrily against me, still caught up in a stream of endorphins from the exercise. He lifts my leg over his hip without any hesitation this time. The action still causes me to gasp. I hug him tightly against me. He moves to my neck and I instinctively lean my head back. My chest is moving in quick, disjointed breaths. His breath sounds quite similar. It pulls me out of the haze slightly.

"Hey, slow down." My voice slurs. "Remember, you're not supposed to overdo it." As if he's not even listening, he attacks me with another hurried kiss.

"Is there a better way to go?" he whispers between pants.

I freeze. My lips stop moving. Peeta catches on after a moment and comes to halt.

"What?" He's still panting.

His words jolt me out of the muddled fog Peeta puts me under. Usually, it's the sound of Peeta being out of breath that causes me anxiety, but that isn't the case this time. It's what he said that sent me into a panic. "Why would you say something like that?" I snap at him.

"It was a joke."

"It's not funny." I snake my way out from his arms and take a few steps away to steady myself. I can hear Peeta's crutches scrape against the floor as he picks them up.

"Katniss. Hey, I'm sorry. I didn't—"

"Are you hungry?" I interrupt. I spin around and make a beeline for the basket of food. "It's just about dinnertime."

"Katniss—"

"You wouldn't believe everything they gave us in addition to those apples. Chicken and bread and nuts. We're never going to eat like this again."

Within minutes the food is set out and we're nibbling in silence. I don't pay much attention to what I'm eating despite how I was raving about it just moments ago. It is unfortunate considering this is the best meal I've had in a long time. I had a lot of expectations about the dinner portion of the evening. It was supposed to be fun and maybe even romantic. I was going to let Peeta be affectionate and feed me nuts or pieces of bread. I never let him do cute things like that in front of other people. I'm usually too embarrassed and I just don't want to appear like a useless, silly girl. Instead, the air is tense, quite different from the playful atmosphere we were enjoying before I abruptly ended it. Peeta remains silent because he's waiting for me to explain myself. I am unsure if I can. I didn't see my reaction coming either. I've been working so hard to keep Peeta alive these past weeks, for him to just say something that undoes all of it, even off-hand, is too much to take.

I finish my chicken and I still haven't spoken. Peeta lets his impatience get the better of him.

"Are we going to let this ruin our evening?" he asks.

Right. That is the one thing I didn't want to do. I didn't want to ruin today. "Why did you say that?"

"You know I didn't mean anything by it."

"I don't like to think about that, about you…" _About you being dead._ "You barely lived through what the Capitol did to you." As if I need to remind him.

"I'm better now," he replies quickly.

"But you're still sick."

"And I'm getting better every day."

"And we don't know what is going to happen tomorrow."

The conversation stalls. I know I've gone too far. I haven't revealed much, but it's enough to alert Peeta to something.

"What's going on?" he says, his concern growing.

"Nothing. Nothing is going on," I lie. I rub my hands over my eyes to hide the dishonesty in them. I don't want to lie to Peeta, but I'm not ready to let go of this yet. I decide to force the conversation to end. "You just can't say things like that. You can't even think it."

_You have to stay alive. You have to stay alive while I'm gone._

"I won't. I promise."

It's an odd thing to make him promise. He's probably still questioning what I'm upset about. That's fine for now. "Okay. Thank you." We're quiet again as we eat, but much of the tension has gone out of the room.

"Are you okay?" he asks gently.

"Yes. I'm sorry. I'm ruining our day," I say with a small, false laugh.

"It wouldn't be us if we didn't fight a little."

* * *

"Are you getting tired?" We've stopped doing much of anything. For the last forty minutes we've been laying on the bed together. My head rests on his chest. He plays with my hair. I've come to learn it's one of his favorite things to do.

"What? Me? Never."

I peer up at him. His eyes droop somewhat. "Liar."

"It's only 9:30."

"It's past your bedtime."

"I'm over eighteen, I shouldn't have a bedtime."

"It's been a full day."

"The best day I can remember."

I sit up and for the first time today he doesn't fight to keep me with him. He is much more tired than he's letting on. I collect our pajamas. I step on one of the chess pieces in the process—one of the small, stubby pawns. I thought I picked up all of those. I sigh as I pick up the piece and carry it over to the basket where the other pieces are stored. After I've thrown it in the basket, I pause. The loaf of bread is sitting next to it—less than half a loaf of bread actually, seeing as we ate most of it. I've probably seen a thousand different loaves of bread in my lifetime. Peeta has probably seen ten times that many. I remember how Prim held it in her hands earlier today, the way she took special care to wrap it up in a cloth, the look of sheer inexplicable excitement in her eyes. I didn't understand it then and maybe I still don't now. I mean, it is _only_ a loaf of bread as she said. It's only a loaf of bread.

I've been standing here too long. Peeta becomes curious. "What is it?"

"Um…nothing," I stammer. "I was thinking about something Prim said today." I finger the cloth for the bread, considering whether I should put it away or not. We're not hungry so I doubt we'll eat anymore of it. I should put it away to keep it from going stale. The kitchen would kill me if they knew I was wasting it. Then again, there is something we could do with it and it wouldn't be a waste.

"Peeta?" I ask in the direction of the bread. "There's something else we could do, but I'm not sure if you're up for it."

"If you planned it, then I'm up for it," he says while attempting to hide a yawn. He'll do anything to extend this day. Of course, I have no idea if he's willing to do this.

"Okay." My hands are shaking as I move to the nightstand. I open a drawer and dig out a couple candles and matches we use when the power goes out occasionally. I set the candles on the same table as the bread. _God_, my hands are shaking. It's extremely noticeable as I try to light the match.

"Are you trying to seduce me again?"

My hands fall to my side as I give up with the matches. He would mention my embarrassing attempt at seduction. I glare at him. "You need to start thinking before you speak."

"I'm just saying, I wouldn't mind if you did."

I throw the cloth at his chest. Feeling less nervous, I ignite the match on the first try and quickly light one of the candles. I shake out the match.

"So what are we doing?" he asks.

He takes the words right out of my mouth. _What am I thinking?_ "I know it's not exactly what the event calls for, but I figured under special circumstances we could make do with what we have." I sound so formal, as if I'd been planning this. I only thought of it in the last thirty seconds.

"Event? What event?"

"Um…well…" I can't seem to bring myself to say it. The candles are there. The bread is there. None of the other details are there though. It's hard to see it.

"Katniss…"

I swear I could tell the moment when the light turned on in his head.

"A…a toasting?" he croaks.

I nod wordlessly. His eyes are wide and disbelieving. I don't blame him. I've never mentioned marriage to him beyond our fake engagement. This is all coming out of nowhere.

"You know, I wasn't holding you to that proposal I made before the Quell." He gulps.

I nod again. I rub my hands together. I can't seem to stay still.

"Why?" he asks.

My stomach drops. _Why?_ He doesn't know the driving reason. He doesn't know I'm leaving him hours from now. But still, he asks why? Doesn't he know? "I thought this would make you happy."

"Make _me_ happy?"

My stomach drops again. "It doesn't make you happy?" I ask with a small voice.

"I'm not saying that, but Katniss, you don't even _want_ to get married. Gale told me."

_What?_ Peeta doesn't talk to Gale. Gale doesn't talk to Peeta. And Peeta is right. For the last 18 years I didn't want to get married. When did the world turn backwards? "When do you talk to Gale?"

"He helps me with my therapy sometimes."

"What? You never told me that." Gale didn't tell me that either.

"He asked me not to. And I didn't want to get in between whatever you two had going on, so I didn't."

I suppose it was a sweet thing for him to do. He didn't want to get in the way of Gale and me reconciling our friendship. I never wanted Gale and Peeta to be enemies. But still, Gale knows quite a bit about me, things I'm not sure I want Peeta to know. "What do you…talk about?"

"Surprisingly enough, we don't talk about you. Well, the first time he visited me we basically just yelled at each other for thirty minutes. That time was about you. The second time he came by he apologized. The third time he helped me exercise and we just talked about the missions and the planning and that's all we've talked about since."

"So when did he tell you I didn't want to get married?"

"That came out the first time we talked. I might have said it to hurt me, but it's okay. It doesn't make what he said untrue." He's rambling. Maybe he thinks he's going to get in trouble for not telling me he's been talking to Gale. "And if that's your opinion of marriage, that's fine. In a way, you're right. I'm not going to force you to do anything."

His argument doesn't make sense. I'm the one standing with the matches in hand. "But I'm the one suggesting it."

"You don't get married just to make the other person happy. You get married because you're in love."

The breath is sucked from my lungs. I guess I don't say it often, or ever. It breaks my heart to think he doesn't know how much I care about him. Not care. Love. "You think I don't love you?"

"No, that's not it. I just don't think either of us is in the right mindset to make that kind of decision. You are generally not open to change and I don't believe you have suddenly forgone all your opinions of marriage."

If I tell him my opinion has changed he'll know something is up. If I push for this he'll know I'm hiding something from him. I have to decide if this is something I can live without. I'm silent for a long time. I can't decide what the right this is to do. I want him, but do I only want him because I'm leaving? Peeta will think that.

"Katniss, come here." He holds out his arms to me. I slowly walk into them. I bury my face in his shirt. "Katniss, there is nothing that would make me more proud than to be able to call myself your husband, but we're not doing this just because there's a knife hanging over our heads."

"There will always be a knife hanging over our heads," I mutter. _If he only knew._

"No. Not always. This will end. And if you still want to marry me then we'll get married. I know our circumstances are not typical, but we're doing this the right way. You deserve it."

I pull back. He's wrong. I don't deserve him. I don't deserve any of the happiness he brings me. "_You_ deserve it," I insist.

He caresses my face. "I have you. That's more than enough."

Even if that were true, even if I am more than enough for him, it doesn't matter. Soon, he won't have me.

* * *

_It hurts to breathe. I can't seem to take in enough air to satisfy my aching lungs. There is some kind of weight on my chest. I can't see it. Even when I look down upon my own body, I can't see it. _

_I begin to trudge around aimlessly, but I can't move very far or very fast. It hurts too much. The light is so bright around me I have to squint in every direction. The light burns my eyes. I'm not used to light after being the dark for so long. _

_Someone. Please. Anyone. Take the weight off. I can't breathe. _

_I begin to feel dizzy. I'm suffocating on nothingness. I'm surrounded by nothingness. I trip. I fall. I skid into the ground. The weight is holding me down. I close my eyes and pray. Someone will come. Someone will pull the weight off. _

_When I open my eyes again, it's dark, but I see him. The weight disappears. Revitalizing air fills me up. I feel as light as a feather. I wonder why he doesn't help me up, but I'm able to stand on my own. His hair is combed and his face is shaved. His clothes are pressed and clean. He can stand without a crutch, without a cane. However, his eyes are static and empty. Not even sad or depressed. They're devoid of any emotion. _

"_Peeta?" My voice is faint and hoarse. Maybe it's a result of that weight that was pressed on my chest. "Peeta? I'm here," I whisper to him. His eyes fall to the ground. He doesn't recognize me. I reach for him. His hand is so cold, like ice, like death. Am I staring at a corpse? _

"_Peeta!" I scream. I can't scream loud enough. He can't hear me. He can't move or smile or see that I'm standing in front of him. His eyes never change. They never see me. They never come back to life.

* * *

_

"Katniss! Katniss! Hey, wake up."

Someone is trying to hold me down. Instinctively, I fight against it. I won't be held under that weight again.

"Shhh…I'm here."

A voice brings me out of it. I stop thrashing. I'm breathing heavily, but I have no problem taking in air. Warm hands stroke my cheeks. Warm lips press against my forehead.

"It's okay," he whispers to calm me down. "You want to tell me what happened?"

"Nothing. It was nothing," I groan. I've said that so many times today. Does he still believe it?

"You're shaking. What's wrong?"

"I said it was nothing!" I snap.

"Okay, okay. Fine." His arm hovers over my waist as my breathing evens out. He tucks me into his side. I'm too tired to fight it. "You haven't had a nightmare in a long time. What brought it on?"

I can't say anything. If I start talking I won't be able to stop. I want to tell him about the nightmare because I know Peeta can make it better, but if I tell him about the nightmare then I have to tell him everything. I'm not ready. There's still time. It can't be over yet. But I can't stay here and have him console me when he doesn't even know what's happening. It's not fair to him. I jump out of the bed and rush toward the door. Peeta is caught off-guard and he doesn't have time to stop me.

"Where are you going?" he calls out.

"Stay in bed. I need a drink."

"It's late."

"I just need some air," I choke out. _Some air?_ I don't even know what I'm saying. There's no hope for fresh air down here.

"What? Katniss, come back to bed. Katniss!"

He's still shouting as I throw open the door. My eyes sting as they adjust to the light from the hallway. My bare feet protest against the cold floor. I trip over the hem of my loose pajama pants, but I keep myself upright.

"Hey!" he shouts. I stop walking. I wipe the moisture that has appeared on my face. I hear Peeta's crutches hitting the floor. "Just because I can barely walk doesn't mean I won't chase after you!" Peeta stands in front of me. I'm staring at the ground. I watch him adjust his stance so he can rest on his prosthetic leg. "What's going on?"

"I left you." _I'm leaving you._ That's the only sense I can make from the dream. I left the darkness to go back into the light. I left him behind. It killed him.

"So are you dreaming my dreams for me now?"

I take in a shaky breath. Peeta reaches out for my hand.

"As much as I appreciate you chasing my nightmares away I don't want you to have them." His empathetic smile is too much for me to handle. I throw my arms around him. I practically knock him over with the force of my embrace. I kiss him. His lips, his cheeks, his neck. Everywhere I can reach. I'm not thinking straight. I know this and I don't stop. I hold onto his face forcefully. Off in the distance, I hear him calling to me in between my surges of erratic affection.

"Katniss, stop. Stop!" He grabs my shoulders and forces us apart. My head drops down in shame. I feel like I've lost control. "One second you're running out the door, the next, you're attacking me. What is the matter?"

I lift my head up. A new stream of tears pours down my face. "Haymitch says there is going to be a strike launched soon," I blurt out.

He blinks a couple times. "What?"

"They're planning to destroy a hospital in the Capitol. If we're able to get rid of their medical resources they will be severely weakened. They won't be able to recoup their losses."

"That makes sense," he says cautiously.

"There's also a chance we can get to Annie."

"Finnick must be—"

"Finnick isn't going," I bark. I sound as though I'm angry at Peeta for not knowing this when I am the one who kept it from him in the first place. "They won't let him. They say he's emotionally compromised and they don't trust him. It's the same reason they wouldn't let me go when they rescued you."

"Finnick was there, wasn't he?" Peeta was so out of it when he was at the Capitol he doesn't even know who saved him.

"Yes." I lift up the collar of my shirt to wipe my nose. It's gross, but I don't care.

"How many times has that guy saved my life?" he says idly. Peeta suddenly glances around the hallway. I don't see anyone. It doesn't look like anyone has been witness to our fight or emotional breakdown or whatever you want to call it. "Can we go back to the room please?"

I silently turn around and head back into the room. A few seconds later, Peeta shuffles in on his crutches. The door squeaks as I close it. I keep a hold of the knob to keep myself vertical. The room seems so much darker now that my eyes need to adjust again. Neither one of us moves to turn on a light.

"You're going, aren't you?" His voice cuts through the quiet.

I tighten my hold on the knob. My silence is indication enough.

"Have you known about this all day?"

"Haymitch told me while you were sleeping."

"And you didn't tell me? What the hell, Katniss?" He collapses onto the bed and throws his crutches to the floor. I flinch at the sound.

"You're angry."

"Yes! I'm angry! You said you weren't going to make decisions without me anymore."

I turn to him. I can't let him believe I've broken that promise to him. It's too important. "I'm not! I swear I'm not!" I plead. "I couldn't ruin our day. I just couldn't."

"So when are you leaving? Sunrise?"

"In a couple days."

"Damn it," he curses under his breath. "You can't keep this stuff from me!"

"I know. I'm sorry," I whimper as I approach him. "But today meant so much to you. It meant a lot to me. I just…I wanted to be with you." I stand in between his legs again. He doesn't take me in his arms. I don't deserve his comfort, but that doesn't stop me from wanting it.

"Katniss—"

"Tell me not to go." I grasp the fabric of his shirt in my hands. "Tell me to stay with you." Would people be surprised by my cowardice? My betrayal? Maybe. They shouldn't be. I'm a poaching, black market trading, rebellious, lying, treasonous murderer. How can they expect anything else from me? Betrayal is the least of my sins.

Peeta's eyes glisten against the small amount of light peeking through the cracks of the door. "I always want you with me, Katniss."

My voice breaks into a sob. I lock my arms around his neck and cry into his shoulder. He rubs his hands over my back in a soothing pattern. He's not going to tell me to stay. He's not going to allow me to be a coward. I know it's the right thing to go to the Capitol and try to end this war. It's the right thing to save Finnick's love after he risked his life to save mine. I let my nightmares and my fears confuse me. Peeta doesn't tell me to stay because Peeta is better than me. "I'm sorry," I repeat.

"Listen to me," he groans through a clenched jaw. He pushes me back and grips my shoulders with so much force it hurts a little. "You're going to go with because you're strong and smart and the most capable person here. You're going to succeed in this mission and you're coming back to me. You. Are. Coming. Back. Understand?" He shakes me with his final command. His words shake me even more. I nod because any words I say will come out as a sniveling whine. His grip on my shoulders lessens and he carefully slides his hands down to hold onto my waist. He pulls me to him and settles me in his lap where I continue to sniffle.

We just sit while he holds me for what feels like a long time—long enough for me to stop crying. I'm aware that this is all backwards. He shouldn't be comforting me when I'm the one who lied to him; I'm the one who's leaving. I accept it only because Peeta so willingly offers it to me. It comforts him to know I'm comforted. My whole body is at ease in his embrace. I can almost forget the horrors that threaten to tear me away.

"So that's why the…uh…?" He gestures to the side table where the loaf of bread has been wrapped up and put away, where the candles have been snuffed out. I'm too embarrassed to admit to anything. I lied to him, I tried to marry him under false pretenses, and I tried to convince him to persuade me to stay because I didn't want to leave him. I couldn't have done more things wrong today.

Peeta leans over to grab the edge of the side table. It's not too far that it's out of his reach. It makes an awful screeching sound as he pulls it across the floor toward us. He couldn't be…

"Peeta, you were right. We shouldn't. We don't have to." My voice breaks repeatedly.

"I wanted this long before you did. I should really learn to start taking advantage of your moments of weakness. There are very few of them."

I can't believe what I'm seeing as it happens before me. He picks up the box of matches, strikes a match, and lights both candles. I notice his hands aren't shaking. He pulls out the remaining chunk of bread and unwraps it from the coarse, white cloth. He breaks off a piece of the bread and holds it in his palm. He does all this while keeping one arm around me. The small amount of candlelight flickering on his face is mesmerizing. I can't see a single scar on his face. I can't see the pallid look to his skin. I can't even see the bags under his eyes. However, I can see the serious nature of his gaze. I can see in his eyes that this isn't for show or to satisfy anyone else. It's for us.

"Katniss, I promise to love you and cherish you every moment I am alive. I promise to take care of you in sickness and in health, for richer or for poorer. You are my friend, my partner, and the person I love most. I swear to you that will never change." His vows are a mixture of traditional promises and beautiful phrases only he could think of. He holds the bread high over the flame so it doesn't turn black. After a few seconds, brown spots appear unevenly over the surface. He takes a bite and chews it slowly. He breaks off a new piece and places it in my hands. I'm pleased to see that at least my hands aren't shaking.

"I don't know what to say." It's so unfair of me to say nothing after Peeta has said such beautiful words to me. He should be offended; instead, he smiles.

"That's okay," he assures. "Your actions have always spoken much louder than your words. This action speaks pretty loudly."

"Except when my actions were dishonest. I swear that is never going to happen again."

"I believe you."

Just like Peeta, I hold the chunk of bread over the flame. I'm less patient than he was and I burn my bread in a couple places. I eat it anyway. In the end, it's just the two of us in the cold, dark room. No ceremony at the Justice Building. No family. No celebration. No white dress, not even an off-white dress.

"I guess it doesn't feel very official." I sigh.

"It doesn't matter."

My face feels splotchy and warm after crying so much. I scrub my hands over my face to wipe some of the residue away. Peeta is staring at me when I drop my hands. Some blushing bride he got. I doubt even the candlelight can make me look any good.

"Are you happy?" he whispers to me. I nod a few times. I can't seem to find a smile with which to reassure him. "You don't look happy." His hand caresses my cheek. I lean into it and close my eyes, determined not to cry anymore. It is my wedding day after all. "Are you scared?"

"I'm not scared of the Capitol," I reply without any doubt. "I'm not afraid of Snow. He's only one man. He has a fragile beating heart just like the rest of us. I've killed before. It's not a difficult thing to do. I want to kill him."

"You're not the only one."

I wonder if there has ever been a conversation like this during any wedding before ours. "I want to end this war, and stop the suffering, and make certain our friends didn't die in vain. I'm not scared to fight, but I am afraid."

"What is it?"

"Do you remember what you said to me on the beach during the Games? You said if you lived and I died that you would never be happy again. I've lived through that. I know what it's like to live thinking that you're dead. It was like being somewhere between life and death. Days would pass and I wouldn't even notice. I couldn't concentrate on anything. There was just this ache I held onto because it was the only thing that felt real. I wasn't sure if I would ever find a way out of it."

"Nothing is going to happen to me. You never have to go through that again," he promises.

I appreciate his promise, as impossible as it may be for him to keep it. We can't promise each other we'll stay alive, not in the world we live in. However, he has misinterpreted my words. He didn't experience my nightmare. "No, Peeta. That's not what I mean. I'm afraid it's going to happen to _you_. I'm afraid you'll never be happy again."

"Katniss…," he breathes. He understands.

I'm not afraid of death, not really. I expect dying will be miraculously easy compared to how hard I have fought to stay alive. But what my death could do to others…if I don't come back from this mission…Peeta will be the one stuck between life and death. There isn't a more awful kind of existence. If it happens to him…

"You have to say that won't happen," I say, my voice rising to a higher volume. "Peeta, you have to promise me that if I die you won't give up; you'll be stronger than me. You will help our friends, and you'll even find someone else to love, and you'll be happy."

Peeta suddenly clutches me closer. My hands hold onto his shirt, causing it to wrinkle.

"_Please_. _Please say it_," I beg. I realize the same night in which he has just promised to love and cherish me forever I'm also making him promise to move on from me when I'm dead. I know it makes no sense. But he has to know that it's okay. If I die on this mission he doesn't have to mourn me forever. He can find someone else, someone who deserves him, and he can have a family and a life full of happiness. He needs to know I want that for him.

"_Katniss_…" His voice is filled with restrained agony. He angles his head to kiss my tears, which have reappeared. He makes no promises. He can't make this promise nor can I make the same promise to him. A normal girl would be delighted by his devotion. Her tears would be tears of joy. I want to be that normal girl—not because I have a desire to wear ribbons or to know how to flirt or to know how to smile the right way—but for Peeta. I want us to be given a chance to live in the normal. Hell, I want us to be given a chance to live.

He places his hands on my face as he pulls back a little. I sniffle embarrassingly. He waits for me to calm down. He has to move his thumbs across my cheeks to wipe the last of my tears away.

"Never," he vows.

When I open my mouth to protest he covers it with his own. I fight it for less than a second. My mind is too muddled with mixed up emotions. My body is too exhausted. There's a loud pounding in my ears. It's the sound of my pulse. It's incredibly fast.

A rush of dizziness floods through my head as he moves me. My back is pressed against the bed. I'm surrounded by a familiar weight. It's not the weight from my dream. Yes, it still sharpens my breathing and holds my body down, but it's welcome. Hands are roaming quickly up and down my torso. I don't know if it's excitement or anxiousness or fear or lust that is ruling his actions. Maybe it's a combination.

Peeta struggles to settle himself comfortably. He can't seem to decide where to distribute his weight seeing as no part of him is as strong as it once was. I want to help him, but I'm unsure of what he wants. He leans onto an elbow at one point and I cry out because he laid himself on my hair. He quickly apologizes and adjusts. Eventually, things settle between us. My leg is hitched around his hip, like it's found its home. Our kisses are slow and languid, perhaps because it's the middle of the night and we're both physically and emotionally exhausted. The kisses never seem to end. I feel so relaxed my arms are laid out lazily over my head. His hands flow over them occasionally to thread with my fingers.

I try to remember what I did this morning that made him gasp. It shouldn't be this difficult to recall, but all rational thought seems to take great effort right now. My body answers the question for me. I squirm a little, clenching him to me closer with my leg. He responds with a deep moan. He presses back into me. I can only gasp and throw my head back; my body involuntarily arches up of the bed. He kisses up and down my exposed throat. His hands drift down to my stomach where my loose pajama top has inched up. He continues to move it upwards. He pauses when the fabric bunches below my breasts, waiting for me to stop him. I don't.

The pounding in my ears is accompanied by the gulp in my throat as my top falls out of sight. Peeta is completely still for the first time in several minutes. My breasts are bare. I've always found it uncomfortable to sleep with a bra on. Peeta probably knows that after spending so many nights with me. I can't see his eyes in the dark room, but I feel my skin flush just knowing that he's looking. My chest is quickly rising and falling. Peeta leans down slowly, _so slowly_, and places a kiss on the skin above each of my breasts. He could have kissed me there when I still had my shirt on. Still, the fabric of his shirt grazes against my bare skin, and despite how warm I feel, I shiver.

"Are you okay?" he whispers lowly. "We can stop."

"No…I'm just…I'm nervous," I confess.

"Me too," he chuckles.

"Really?"

"Yeah…I've never done this before." His fingers ghost over my eyebrow and my cheekbones. He kisses that damn spot below my ear.

"You're perfect," I tell him. "You've always been perfect."

"I'm far from perfect. Damn lucky, but not perfect."

"You think you're lucky?" I laugh.

"I have you, in my arms, pledging to marry me. If that's not luck, then I give thanks to every known and unknown deity."

"If anything, we should thank Haymitch for keeping us alive."

"Let's not talk about Haymitch right now," he mutters before diving back in to kiss me.

Several minutes pass. Somewhere along the line, his shirt has joined mine on the floor. An undeniable thrill runs through me when our bare bodies come together. As wonderful as it feels, I can't help feeling like something else needs to happen, but I don't know how to voice it. I decide to do what Peeta always expects of me and let my actions speak for me. I move my hips up and into him tentatively, remembering the fire I felt in the pit of my belly this morning. I don't want the pace to increase because it seems to be working well for Peeta. He's not breathing in a way which makes me concerned. My hips don't seem to have the effect I desire so I throw my other leg around his waist and move a little harder.

"Ah…God…," he cries out. He presses down against my parted legs and I cry out with him.

I can't say I've ever imagined this moment. Contemplated? Yes. Considered? Yes. Expected? One day. But the actual act? I wouldn't have a place to begin to imagine it. I had no female friends to talk this over with. I had no boyfriends with whom I could gain some experience. Now, I have a husband, who by his own admission, worships me, and is willing to dedicate himself to me. I am more than willing to do the same for him. I'm willing to give all of myself to him.

"I love you," I say swiftly. Peeta stops addressing whatever part of my skin he was enamored by and finds my eyes. Have I ever said it to him? I can't recall. I know I've felt it for a long time now. Right now, it's the only thing I feel.

He doesn't say it back. He doesn't have to. He has said it a thousand times to me. He has said it in front of thousands of people and each and every time it was sincere. I wish I would have felt something back then or at least understood what I was feeling. Then maybe I would remember the exact words he spoke when he proposed or the things he said at the end of the Games when he was ready to let himself die so I could live. I wish it all would have meant as much to me as it did to him.

I can't lose this. I have to come back. It's not enough. It's only been four weeks. We haven't had enough time. We have to make new memories that I will sear into my brain. Memories like the ones we're creating right now.

Suddenly, we're both impatient and the last of our clothes are pushed and pulled and thrown off the bed. I'm glad it happens so fast because it makes it impossible for me to think about it too much. Peeta pulls a sheet over us. It makes me feel secure, less exposed, although when I'm in his arms, there's no way I could feel anything but safe. His body is warm and comforting, finally without fever, finally without pain.

Peeta's lips move monstrously slowly across my collar bones. After the mad rush to get our clothes off it feels a little jarring. He's stalling. Could he really be as nervous as me?

"Peeta," I say while pulling his face up to mine. "Please."

He takes a breath. Then he lifts himself up a little, supporting himself on his elbows. I'm confused when he reaches for the drawer on one of the side tables and rifles around until he finds a small square of plastic. Realization dawns on me and I feel like an idiot for not saying something sooner. When did he put those there? It doesn't matter. For all I know, my mother may have put them there. Whoever it was, they have certainly made their assumption about what Peeta and I do at night. It isn't much of a surprise Peeta thought of it so easily. Using birth control is practically pounded into us in the upper grades of school, especially the boys. Why? Because families can't afford to feed unplanned babies, those of us from the Seam in particular. We were made to understand this from a very young age and teenage pregnancies were actually rare. Of course, we're only human, and once in a while a girl from school would end up pregnant. Those situations were always very sad because even more rarely would the father of the baby step forward to help. Even if the girl knew without a doubt who the father was, the family of the boy would tell him not to take responsibility because they couldn't afford to feed another mouth.

In the last 24 hours I have contemplated my own opinion on having a family. For as long as I can remember I have been against it. I was also against getting married and now I have a husband. Peeta deserves a family after all he's lost. He, more than anyone, would make a wonderful parent. Visions of toddlers with his blue eyes and my dark hair dance before my eyes for a brief moment. I want to want it. Still, the prospect of bringing a child into this uncertain and dangerous world is too much for me to comprehend. The pain of losing a child or for my child to lose its parent is just as upsetting as it has always been.

"Peeta, I…," I begin, but I have no idea how to end the sentence.

He quickly turns to me, the plastic wrapper already discarded. "I know," he says while caressing my hair, "It's not the right time."

I lift my forehead up to touch his before I generously kiss him. In that kiss I want him to know that I agree. It's just not a possibility right now. It would be wrong of us to consider it. It would be wrong for us to let it happen by accident. However, I also want him to know there could be a right time. There will be a right time. For once, I'll be able to give something back to him. He'll have more than just me for his family. He'll have everything.

When we part he has to settle himself once more. I regret the pause we took only because it allowed all this new anticipation to build that turns my stomach into a bunch of knots. I hug his shoulders and try to keep as calm as possible. Peeta is continually whispering in my ear. I can't exactly understand what he's saying, and it's not enough to distract me from the initial sharp pain I feel. I make a sound resembling a grunt. He immediately tenses up and stops all movement. He keeps on whispering. Something about taking care of me and how much he loves me. The sound of my pulse in my ears is too loud to hear him properly. I count the quick drumming of my pulse and remind myself to breathe. Seconds pass and my body begins to relax. The pain isn't bad, nothing compared to what I've been through in the past. I am just too nervous for my own good. I lessen the grip my legs have around his middle and let him move. I feel more uncertain of what I'm doing now more than ever, but if Peeta's soft moans are any indication, I'm not doing anything wrong.

I lie motionless for a few moments, trying to get acclimated to this new sensation. I feel disconnected keeping still so I try to move my body with Peeta. Almost immediately, I'm out of sync so I stop. My breath trembles and all my nerves rush back over me. My hands turn into fists behind his neck as I hold myself closely to him again. Peeta senses my anxiety and comes to a standstill. I just want to do this right, but I don't know what I'm doing. I had no time to prepare, not that I would have known how to prepare for this. I'd probably be a thousand times more nervous if I took time to prepare. My head is spinning and my ears are still pounding. It's _my_ breathing that sounds out of control.

"Shhhh…" I hear soothingly against my ear. Somehow it cuts through the loud pounding of my heart. "It's okay. Move when you're ready," he whispers, his voice husky and filled with desire, but still overflowing with comfort. I remind myself of where I am. With Peeta. Peeta, who makes me feel safe. Peeta, who mistakenly sees me as perfect. With him I can do no wrong. Well, not really. I can do a lot of things wrong, but I know we'll find a way through it. His capacity for forgiveness is extraordinary. His love is unconditional. I wasn't sure such a love could exist in our lost, frightened existence. Peeta is the exception and he shares his love with _me_.

Fueled by a small amount of confidence, I begin to move my hips toward him again, much like before. Peeta finds my rhythm and moves gently with me, filling me up in a way I didn't know was possible. The pain is all but gone. Something else has taken its place. It's similar to the fire from this morning but burns from a place substantially deeper within me. My mind turns off and gives into the feel of it. The desire to continually stoke this fire is impossible to ignore. My body takes control. Without thinking, I press up harder than before, tightening my hold on him with my legs. This time it's not because of nerves, it's because I need to drive him closer to me. My breath comes out in sudden, broken gasps. I push myself against him faster. He matches the pace with ease.

"Oh…_God_…I…uh," I pant over his shoulder, between each thrust of his body into mine. I know I had no frame of reference to start, but how did I not know? How did I live without this feeling? My body has experienced countless instances of pain, starvation, and wounds, physical and emotional. I didn't know my broken body was capable of experiencing such pleasure. I thank God I'm sharing this with Peeta. I'm sharing this with my husband.

All of a sudden, I need his kiss. I let my head fall back and he finds me without question, moaning into my mouth. The sounds are familiar. They remind me of the times he groaned in pain during the nights when he was recovering. It's strange to hear the same sounds now being used to express pleasure. It confuses me even further that the sounds heighten the flames coursing through me.

My sounds are unintelligible. They express nothing but the rapid, insistent pull of this new craving. The speed has become nearly frantic. We fall out of sync now and again, but neither one of us wants to slow down. My body is desperately seeking…something. I don't know enough to know what it is. Something to put out the flames? They are licking up every part of me now, from my core to my toes, up my spine till it reaches the tips of my fingers.

I run my fiery hands up and down his slick back, feeling the sweat that has formed there. This is when I notice the quick rise and fall caused by his breathing. His lungs are working extremely hard—twice as hard as my own, and I can barely speak through my heavy pants. His arms are shaking with the strain of holding his weight up. Why did it take me so long to notice? I always keep an eye on his breathing. I can't let him keep this up. It's dangerous for him. He needs to slow down, but I'm not sure if it's possible.

Taking a second to regroup, I place my hands on his chest. His face is buried into my neck. "Peeta," I say as loudly as possible, though it comes out far more breathy then I would have liked. He slows down minutely. "Peeta," I repeat a little louder. He slows down substantially. His body tightens up. I'm afraid I've made him think he's hurting me. "Lay back," I command. He grunts into my ear, not understanding. I push on his chest, forcing him to fall back against the bed. His eyes go wide as he realizes what I'm trying to do. I can't help but take a gulp of air in an effort to find some bravery to do what I am actually doing.

I push myself to sit up slightly. I'm glad the room is so dark. It makes me less self-conscious. His hands are on my hips. I'm reminded of this morning when I straddled his lap. I make movements similar to what I did then and almost immediately Peeta's eyes close and his head falls back into the pillows completely.

"Katniss," he hisses. "I…uh…_fuck_…"

I'm unsure if I've ever heard my well-mannered Peeta curse like that. He curses when he's angry or upset, but never as a result of having nothing better to say. Oddly, this gives me new confidence. I'm amazed and pleased and thrilled I can cause him to come undone. I lift myself up further onto my knees and fall back onto him with increased force. Our moans tumble out in unison.

"Katniss, I can't…hold…," he groans, but he never finishes his sentence.

I repeat my earlier action, lifting myself up and pushing back down. His hands clutch my hips aggressively; his fingers dig into my skin. My body is absolutely electric with anticipation. I lift myself up once again, falling down with more strength than I probably should. Peeta's breathing goes from fierce and speedy to practically silent. I look down at him. His body has gone still and rigid. For a split-second I'm concerned, until I take note of the look of intense gratification on his face. I think he's saying something to me, but it sounds more like low growling than anything else.

Moments after, the hands grasping my sides go limp and drop to the mattress. My body follows suit. Every part of me softens, relaxes, until I'm overwhelmed with cleansing drowsiness. I collapse onto his chest, which is, thankfully, beginning to slow down with Peeta's efforts to breathe. Somehow, he finds the energy to place his arms around me. He is whispering again. I still don't understand most of it. Words like love, amazing, and beautiful are thrown around quite a bit. I close my eyes and let exhaustion envelop me. For once, I am completely confident I will sleep without nightmares.

* * *

It's nearly impossible to know when it's morning down here. It's yet another reason people struggle with sleeping. Their circadian rhythms are completely confused. There's no sunrise to let you know when it's time to wake up. In fact, when my eyes finally open the room has the same level of light it did when we went to sleep, minus the candles which have burned themselves out in the night.

I stretch my arms above me, forcing every kink out from head to toe. Sometime during the night I ended up lying beside Peeta with his arm draped over me. With a soft moan Peeta's arm tightens around my waist. My movement must have woken him up. I flip over so I can see him. An unapologetic look of contentment is plastered on his face.

"Good-morning," he sighs.

"Good-morning."

"How did you sleep?"

"Wonderfully."

He smiles and squeezes me again. "So…what happened last night; was that real?"

I can't help but smile in response. It is pretty incredible to think about how quickly everything happened. "I think so."

"Let me check." He lifts up the sheet to expose our bodies, which are, as far as I can remember, completely naked. "Wow, yeah, that_ was_ real."

I blush and cover my face with my hands.

"Don't hide that beautiful face from me," Peeta instructs. He pulls my hands away and leans forward to kiss me twice. "How are you feeling?"

"I love you," I instantly respond. It doesn't exactly describe how I feel. I don't know how to describe how I feel. Happy, I suppose, but that much is obvious from the grin on my face. I've only told Peeta I love him once. I have so much catching up to do.

His smile manages to grow. "That's very good to hear. Are you glad we…?" He runs his hand up and down my arm. It seems a little immature that we've done something we can't say out loud. But that's the nature of things when you get married in the middle of the night without telling anyone.

"Peeta, never in my life have I felt so loved and cared for. You make me feel safe. That feeling is very hard to find these days." I lean forward to kiss him in thanks.

"Don't you think it's strange I make you feel safe when I can't protect you at all?"

"You do protect me. You protect my heart. I've given it to you, you know. You'd better take care of it." I poke him in the chest with my finger. He grabs my hand and kisses it.

"I will."

"How do _you_ feel?"

"Katniss, you're my wife." There's a definite note of disbelief in his voice. Whether he means it as a question or a statement, I nod. "My wife…my wife…," he repeats as he rolls on top of me, finding my lips as quickly as he can manage. Things come together so much more easily already. My legs part and he settles in without hesitation. My arms surround his shoulders naturally. Everything feels right—that is, until there is an abrupt knock on the door.

"Go away!" Peeta shouts. I would smack him for his rudeness, but I agree with the sentiment.

"It's Haymitch. I need to talk to Katniss," a voice calls out through the door.

It's the only thing that could take us out of the moment. Without words, Peeta rolls off of me. I take the sheet with me as I find my top and my pants and quickly put them on. Peeta finds his pants and gets them on as well. He waits on the bed as I open the door.

"Good-morning, sweetheart. Have a pleasant evening?"

I ignore the obvious implications of his question. "What do you need?"

"There's a meeting at nine. Can I expect you there?"

I keep my face as stoic as possible. I don't want to show any weakness, especially to Haymitch. "Yes. I'll be there."

"Good. Glad to hear it."

"I want it understood that Peeta and I are not to be disturbed. Would you see to that?"

"No problem. See you in an hour. That going to be enough time for you, Peeta?" he shouts over my head. I slam the door in his face.

When I turn back around the atmosphere of the room is drastically different. The entire post-wedding night afterglow is gone. We're faced once again with a stark and frightening reality. Peeta is sitting in his wheelchair. I guess he's too tired to go with the crutches today. I don't know what to say, which isn't unusual. What Peeta finally does ask surprises me.

"Gale is going with you, right?"

"Yes," I say without missing a beat. Gale was part of the group that rescued Peeta as well. I wonder if Peeta knows that, if Gale told him, or maybe if Peeta just figured it out on his own.

"Good. If I can't be there I want Gale to be."

I walk up to him. I still have no idea what to say. I feel like everything has already been said. He takes my left hand and runs his thumb over the top of my ring finger.

"I wish I had a ring for you." Wedding rings? A very old tradition seldom practiced these days. It was still popular in the Capitol, but very few people in District Twelve could afford one. Once in a while you could find a family that still passed down wedding bands as heirlooms, but more often than not, those family rings had been sold off long ago to buy food.

"Yes, because I _am_ the type of girl that's won over with jewelry," I tease.

"I should have bought one when we were in the Capitol."

"Maybe I'll pick one up while I'm there," I say as a joke. Peeta's face immediately falls and I regret it. "Sorry. I don't know why I said that."

"Don't worry. We've both had moments like that in the last 24 hours. So, how do you want to spend the next 53 minutes?"

I kneel down so that I'm just below eye level with him. I think about all the words he's said to me over the years, the ones I can remember. The declarations of love and adoration. I try to be specific. I want to prove that I remember. Something comes to the surface of my mind. I can't remember exactly, but I think what I say is close, and it's applicable considering recent events. "I want to spend the rest of my life with you."

"You will. You will."

* * *

God, I hate this elevator. It creaks and moans just like the elevators that led down to the mines in twelve. Yes, I've been living in a compound deep in the ground with thousands of pounds of dirt over my head, but it isn't until I'm standing in this shaky elevator that I'm acutely aware of it.

Gale is standing beside me. He knows how nervous I am. He playfully elbows me. I elbow him back.

"Don't be nervous, Catnip. We haven't even left yet."

"Leave her alone, Gale," Madge snaps at him.

"Stay out of it, Madge," he bites back.

I raise an eyebrow at both of their reactions. Just about everything sends these two into an argument these days. It would be cute if it weren't so obnoxious. "Knock it off. The Capitol doesn't have to worry about the two of you because you'll probably kill each other."

Madge folds her arms and starts tapping her foot. Gale leans against the side of the elevator and looks away from her.

It's no surprise to me Madge is a part of the team. She started getting into shape around the same time Peeta was rescued. After witnessing her father's bravery and sacrifice, she couldn't stand on the sidelines anymore. She wanted to carry on his legacy and honor his memory. She did phenomenally. She learned to shoot and run and hunt as well as I could. Her physique changed entirely. She gained weight, but in a way that makes her look stronger. Her muscles are now long and lean; her fingers are calloused from practicing so much. In reality, she's in better shape than I am. She never wears make-up anymore and usually has her hair pulled up in a pony tail. She's not the wispy, privileged mayor's daughter she once was. She even outwits Gale on a constant basis—part of the reason they fight so much. They actually have several similarities. They both lost their fathers, they both have a tenacious will to fight, and they're both intensely caring and giving people. I swear, they would make a great couple if they only stopped fighting for five minutes.

Oh. _Oh. _Well, I would have to see what I could do about that.

I lean against the side of the elevator and close my eyes. I try not to think about how the elevator could break and we could all plummet to the ground and die before we even reach the surface. I put my hands into my pockets. I feel something foreign in one of them. I pull out a folded piece of paper I don't recognize.

I fear it's from Peeta. We promised no letters. Well, I made him promise no letters, but apparently he doesn't listen.

We didn't share a goodbye. It wasn't goodbye because we agreed, without a doubt, I am coming back. Once again, an impossible thing to promise, but it was too painful to face the alternative. But already, I'm regretting it. I wish for a goodbye. Maybe Peeta knew I would and that's why he broke his promise and stuffed a letter in my pocket.

I can't help myself. I have to know. I slowly unfold the thin sheet of paper. It's not a letter. It's a list.

_I had an imaginary friend named Crumb until I was six_

_My middle name is Mateo_

_I am undefeated at gin rummy_

_I absolutely detest butter cookies. I got sick from eating too many of them at once_

_I'm allergic to cologne_

_I cut my own hair when I was three—my mother made me wear a hat for a month_

_I always spell the word "unnecessary" wrong…is that right?_

_I have a fear of heights—I have an even greater fear of falling from heights_

_I once had a pet turtle named Napoleon_

_My first kiss was with Vesta Persons when I was fourteen_

_I don't like bananas but I like banana bread_

_I dream of seeing the ocean again_

_I am a terrible singer—there's a reason you've never heard me sing_

_Marrying you was the single greatest moment of my life_

_You are the only woman I have ever loved_

_I will be here when you come back_

_I love you_

_Peeta_

I fold the paper back up. I put it back in my pocket where it belongs, where it will stay, until I come back.

Until I come home.


	6. Chills

A/N: Hello again! It's been a long break. If you've wondered where I've been, I was suffering through the last weeks of the semester, preparing for my interior design senior show. Since I last posted, I graduated from college! I'm a college graduate! Now who wants to hire me? Seriously_._ The name of our senior show was "Will Design for Food."

Anyway, so in updating this story, it's also gone under some restructuring. **The rating has changed from T to M.** What was previously an out-take is now included in chapter 5. I know I said I wasn't going to add it in—I changed my mind. I decided to make this change because the M-rated parts were always part of the vision for this story, so in that sense, the out-take wasn't technically an out-take. However, the bulk of this story is not M. So, from here on out, I will add a warning in the notes as to the content of the chapter if need be. Okay, kids?

Now that the epically long disclaimer is out of the way, I need to give a big thank-you to ohaleno4 for recommending this story on TLYDF. She has been unbelievably supportive and I considerate a big deal to be mentioned. Also, thank-you to SubieC and Medea Smyke for whipping this chapter into shape. Also, check out MS's story, _And So We Run Redux: Part I & II_. It is incredible. Read this and then go read that.

I got a twitter name for some reason: KenoshaChick10

Also, we're switching POV's. Peeta is going to take over the narration for a while. Enjoy.

This chapter is rated M for sexual content, but you know me, it's nothing graphic.

Peeta's POV

**Chills**

Cold feet. Cold hands. Cold sheets. Cold air.

"Katniss?" I mumble. My heavy eyes remain shut as I reach out across the mattress. Because the bed is so narrow, it's equivalent to simply unfolding my arm from where it's tucked underneath my body. My hand meets no resistance and ends up hanging over the edge.

_Oh…right. Damn it. _

She's not here. I don't know how long she's going to be gone. The timeline of the mission isn't concrete. At one point it was only to be a few days. Then it became a week. Then longer, two weeks, and then back to several days again. No one knows for sure. It depends on if things go according to plan. Of course, I know next to nothing as to whether or not it is going to plan. I won't know until it's over.

I rub my hands over my eyes. My icy fingers provide soothing relief to the headache under my eyes. I didn't sleep for more than an hour. It wasn't intentional. It was simply impossible to sleep with the anxiety ticking away in my brain. It's unpleasant to feel this exhausted, but I'm glad I didn't sleep longer. It wasn't enough time to start dreaming. I know without even entering that state of unconsciousness that it would have been bad. I know because the reality is pretty screwed up as it is.

I shake as a chill runs down my back. The compound is always a little cold, being underground and all, but typically, I'm not freezing. If anything, I'm usually closer to running a fever. The reason for my change in temperature is as obvious as the emptiness of my bed.

I have to get up and get moving or my joints will go stiff. Someone my age shouldn't have to deal with this many health problems. I awkwardly climb, more like fall, into my wheelchair beside my bed. I bang one of the wheels into the cot as I roll through the darkness. The same cot Katniss would sleep on nights that I couldn't convince her to sleep in my bed. I thought about sending it back to the barracks the day after our toasting, but that would have had some far reaching implications. Katniss hates gossip. Then again, she hates being the center of anyone's attention. Her discomfort is somewhat humorous to me considering how we admitted to this very event in past. Then it was a lie. I never thought it would actually happen. But there's something different about the gossip when it's being passed through the people you work with. We're not performing a show for the people here like we did during the Games. There is some truth to that gossip now. The thought brings a smile to my face. It fades just as quickly.

I make it to the other side of the room where a small dresser holds my meager amount of clothing. Everyone in Thirteen is issued the same clothes. It's been this way for the past seventy-five years. It's not intentional that Thirteen dresses in uniforms, but the compound doesn't have the capacity to produce a wide range of clothing. It also makes the washing and the delivery process easier when everything is the same. On the other hand, a change in the color scheme would be nice. Everything is a variation of the same dark green, black, and gray depending on the degree to which the clothing has been washed. It gets monotonous. In fact, the first thing I see when I open the middle drawer is the standard dark green thermal; however, this one is several sizes too small for me. I pick it up and notice another small-sized long-sleeved shirt that has been worn so thin I can see through the material. Beneath that is a stained gray tank top. These items could belong to anyone; well, anyone female. They may have been misplaced by the laundry delivery. Neither of those theories is correct. It's Katniss' clothing. She usually keeps her things wherever her mother and her sister keep their belongings. She has kept a pair of pajamas in here for a while now, but this is the first time I've seen her things mixed in with mine—like she's moved in. An uncomfortable lump forms in my throat.

_God damn it_. Day one and I'm already a mess.

I quickly put the clothes back, now slightly unfolded, but I pause before I close the drawer. Something about the clothing distracts me. It takes a second for me to realize that it's the scent of it. I can smell her. It's a faint scent, different from most girls. She never smells like perfume or flowers, and besides, the soap we use down here is coarse and unfragranced. It gets the dirt off but it doesn't leave you smelling good. But Katniss never needs perfume anyway. She smells like air—fresh, clean, revitalizing air. When we were in Twelve it made sense because she would spend her days hunting in the woods away from the ash and the coal dust, but even now, deep beneath the earth's surface her scent fills up my lungs like I'm taking in clean air for the first time in weeks.

I'm starting to lose it. I need a distraction and quick.

I abruptly shut the drawer without taking something to wear. I rush out of the cold room actually looking forward to starting my physical therapy session for once. Something to take my mind off the reality of her absence. I'm still wearing pajamas, but it doesn't matter. I'll just get sweaty in them anyway.

It's still early and the halls are mostly empty as I roll toward the therapy room. I don't acknowledge anyone I pass. The way I've been treating people—and the way people have been treating me—is very different from any experience I've had at home or throughout Panem. For one, the recovery has been as bad as the torture itself, perhaps worse since I don't remember much of the torture, and I've been taking it out on the people around me. I haven't exactly been my friendly, charming self. Secondly, the citizens of Thirteen don't have a personal connection to me simply because they don't watch the Games. They know about them, but it's not a requirement for them to watch the brutality unfold. They understand that I'm important to the people of other districts, something of a celebrity, but _they_ don't hold me in higher regard than anyone else. If anything, they question why I was rescued at all; half-dead as I was. I can't help but question it too considering I don't offer much to the resistance and I siphon off the medical supplies. But I appreciate what everyone here has done for me despite all that. Not only did they save my life, they kept her safe for me. What I wouldn't give to be able to keep her safe.

Look at that. I couldn't even make it down the hall without thinking about her.

Shell waits in the therapy room when I roll in; the same woman who interrupted Katniss and me last week. Was that really less than a week ago? So much can change within the course of a few days.

_So much has changed._

"Good-morning," she says flatly.

"Morning," I mumble back. It baffles me how the residents of Thirteen use phrases like "good-morning" to greet one another. Most of them have no concept of what morning is. Nothing beyond the simulated sunlight machines they use to grow crops. It's not the same. They've never woken up before sunrise to start baking for the day and witnessed a foggy, colorless sky morph into a spectacular blue. Nor have they watched that same blue filter into layers of purple, red, pink, and orange at dusk. All they have here is fluorescents. Artificial and sterile. They've never seen how a person's face changes as the sunlight does; how a person can somehow become more beautiful than you thought possible…how she became more beautiful.

I rub my hands over my face. It's going to be a very long day.

"I didn't think you were going to come in today," Shell says. She has a crease between her eyes that expresses her disappointment. She always has a crease there, meaning she must find disappointment in everything around her. Makes her look much older than she is. She's only five or six years older than I am.

"It's been a couple days since I've last worked out. I need to keep up with it." Then I mutter, "I also need something to distract me."

"Sure," she says idly, but she has the grace not to bring up the reason I need a distraction. It would be counterproductive for her to do so anyhow. "We can do that."

She pushes her brown hair, matte from never having seen the sun, behind her ears as she begins setting up a walking machine for me. The room was refurbished for therapy. Exercise machines and weights were pulled from a larger gymnasium-type space that the residents use to keep physically active. Who knows how Thirteen originally used this room? It wasn't for physical therapy. In fact, Thirteen's hospital wing hasn't been this busy…ever. Not since Thirteen started accepting refugees, many of whom were suffering from injuries. Prior to this, the hospital wing had little traffic. It's difficult to get hurt when you never leave the underground. The biggest thing they had to worry about was the spread of viruses, and that was unlikely as long as no one new ever came down here. Now it's a much larger issue that the medical staff complains about constantly. However, no one's brought the plague with them so far.

"Okay, let's start off light since you've been on a break. You know, the more days you take off the more difficult it will be to get you back to a hundred percent," she lectures.

"I don't think I'll ever be at a hundred percent again," I grumble back as I gesture toward my prosthetic. The damn thing knocked me down twenty-five percent before I even started recovering. Shell rolls her eyes and ignores me. I have a hard time keeping my comments to myself. Shell is one of the only volunteers who will still meet with me. When Katniss said I scared everyone away, I really _did_ scare everyone away. Who knew I had it in me? I've always been known for being a generally friendly person. I just hate how long it is taking me to get better. I'm still not where I want to be. Not well enough to take care of the only person I want to take care of. Without Katniss here I don't have anyone else to depend on, so I'll have to try and have better manners.

It's unfortunate I can only get Shell to help me out, because out of everyone, she is the most annoying. She wants to help, be a healer, but she's tough as nails to please. And she does things like interrupt my mornings with Katniss. Everything has to be on schedule for this woman. Although, I must admit, she's slightly more pleasant than the nurse practitioner. Shell at least knocks before she enters the room. She's probably irritated with me that I skipped my sessions for the past couple days, but she won't say it out loud. However, she'll make me pay for it in the work out.

I push myself out of the wheelchair and once I'm standing upright and in position Shell starts the machine at the lowest speed. My hip joints burn with the first few steps. I keep quiet. If I let her know how stiff I've become she'll lecture me even more. Still, she notices how slowly I move and gives me a disapproving shake of her head.

Her name, and others like it, surprised me when I first met her. I thought Thirteen's residents would be named things like Granite or Quartz—things found underground. However, most of the natives are named after things found in nature, just like Katniss. Ironic, considering there isn't much nature to go around down here. The difference between them and Katniss is they have never seen the items they're named after. They have books and pictures and digital files. Shell knows, in theory, what a shell is, but she's never seen the ocean. The names are meant to serve as reminders so they don't forget the world above them, or in Shell's case, so she'll recognize the world if she ever gets out of here.

"Feeling better?" Shell asks. My joints have finally warmed up and it's easier to walk. I nod and Shell puts the machine on a higher setting. It takes me a few steps to get used to the new pace, but I manage.

I continue to walk. And walk and walk. I try to work out my limp. I try to force my muscles to remember what it feels like to move normally; well, as normal as it gets when one leg is not like the other. Unfortunately, this kind of exercise is monotonous. I'm literally going nowhere, while at the same time; Katniss is flying across the landscape toward something enormously dangerous. Where is she now? What district is she hovering over? Is she frightened? Is she safe? So much for distraction.

Her last hours here went too quickly. The morning after our toasting, a whirlwind of planning and training enveloped her the minute she stepped out of the room. She had to memorize names and faces and maps—stuff she should have learned while she took care of me. I tried to help her study a bit by going over the names with her. I didn't recognize any of them. Funny, considering I spent several months in the Capitol. The Capitol must have left me useless on purpose.

By the time we went to bed that night it was late and we were both exhausted. I won't lie. I thought about making love to her again. I think that's how every newly married man would think about spending what could potentially be the last hours he has with his wife. The image of her on top of me spun through my head as she snuggled against me, but neither one of us felt up to it. She needed to rest and I was tired. I'm _always_ tired. I didn't sleep for more than a few minutes at a time, only dozing off momentarily because my body couldn't fight off the sleep any longer. I would wake up, my body seizing with familiar intensity, my vice-like grip surrounding her. I hoped she didn't feel the anxiety in my touch.

During those fits of restlessness I wrote the letter, or non-letter, as it were. Katniss told me early on in the day that she didn't want to go through a goodbye. I suggested writing her something and she immediately disagreed. She didn't want a letter or a note or a drawing or anything. I was hurt at first because I wanted so badly to have her take a part of me with her, especially when I couldn't be there. Maybe it reminded Katniss too much of the letters I told her we'd write before we went into the Quell.

Katniss made me promise not to write one. I agreed, knowing leaving was incredibly difficult for her, and she didn't need a reason to change her mind. But ever since I suggested a letter, I couldn't help but imagine what it would say. I had to get the words out of my head, even if she never read them. The first draft ended up being quite similar to the letter I wrote her before the Quell. The one Haymitch never gave her. I suppose I should thank him for that. Glad to know the old man had some faith I was still alive. Or maybe he just lost it. The letter from the Quell was written with the idea that I would be dead when she read it. That thought made my insides twist uncomfortably, so I threw the first draft out.

I thought about what would reassure her, what would make her certain of her success in the mission. Long, drawn out declarations of love would just make her uncomfortable or perhaps depressed. I wanted to encourage her and give her hope in the future, our future. We talked so much of lost opportunities during the day we spent together, but I didn't want to linger on those regrets anymore. I needed her to change focus, but it seemed the only way I could do that was to catch her up on what she had missed. If she wanted to know, well, I was going to tell her. I wrote down the first insignificant, stupid things I could think of. I second guessed whether or not I should include that line about my first kiss, seeing as Katniss is the jealous type, but if it gets her home even a minute sooner, I'll take it. I want her to know everything about me. I was unaware she knew so little until she started asking questions. I ended it with a different tone. More serious, but just as true as anything else in the list. Marrying her is the greatest moment of my life. She is the only woman I love or have ever loved. And she is going to come back to me.

* * *

_Before Katniss leaves today, she must attend yet another meeting. She tells me to sleep while she works. I slip the letter into the pocket of her jacket that hangs on the back of a chair before I collapse into unconsciousness. I'd been up almost the entire night prior writing that letter. The body isn't meant to stay up for twenty-four hours. I told her to wake me up if she needed me or if we had some time alone. She promised. That's why I am so confused when I wake up in the middle of the afternoon to find her sitting in the chair beside my bed, her knees pulled up to her chest, staring at me like she is lost. _

_ "Hey," I say while fighting a yarn. _

_ "Hi," she whispers back, like she is trying to keep quiet so she doesn't wake me up. _

_ "You just get here?"_

_ "No. I've been sitting here for twenty minutes or so."_

_ "Why didn't you wake me up?"_

_ "I was trying to decide if it would be best to wake you or not." She is trying to sneak off without a goodbye. I can't fault her. It is a lot to face. All while she's supposed to be the tirelessly brave mockingjay. Not for me though. She never has to be that for me. _

_ "How much time?" I ask her hurriedly. _

_ She just shakes her head and throws her eyes to the floor. There isn't much time left, if any. _

_ "Come here," I say as I reach out for her. She obeys and climbs into the bed to lie next to me. I place my arm around her middle and pull her as close as possible. I throw my good leg over hers; subconsciously, I may have wanted to trap her here. "Did you talk to your mother and Prim?"_

_ "Yes." Her eyes flutter as she averts her gaze from me. She traces my collar bones with her cold fingertips. It's always so damn cold down here. "Gale's family, too." _

_ So she had said her goodbyes. I am last. _

_ "Katniss, I—"_

_ "Don't. Please don't," she chokes. Her thin fingers graze my neck and comb through my hair, tugging at it. She buries her face against my neck. I can feel her lips on my skin as she speaks. "Can we just pretend that this isn't happening?" _

_ I gently run my hand through her long hair, hoping it will soothe her. Her body doesn't relax but she releases her grip on my scalp. "You think that's a good way for you to go into this?" Denial couldn't possibly be healthy. Coping with high levels of stress has been an issue for both us for the past two years. Maybe there is no good way of dealing with it. _

_ She leans back again. She swallows once. "I'm not worried about what I have to do. I have confidence in the plan and in Gale and Madge and everyone involved. But this…" She places her hand on my chest, over my heart. "I can't…can we just pretend I'm not leaving you?"_

_ "You're coming back. Say it," I command. My hand clenches into a fist behind her lower back. She feels it and she visibly flinches. I immediately unfurl my hand and run my hand up her back tenderly. _

_ "I'm coming back," she repeats, but her voice sounds empty. She doesn't believe it. I'll just have to believe it enough for the two of us. _

_ "You'll stay safe for me, right?" Don't be a hero. _

_ "I'll try." _

_ How do I convince her to believe it? We're meant to have so much more. We deserve everything. I don't think expressing this now will help her. Whatever she's doing to cope, it's just what she needs to do to handle the situation. The letter will have to be enough. _

"_Can I kiss you?" she suddenly asks. Her eyes jump up to find mine. She looks so nervous and hopeful, as if she's made some impossible request. I have to laugh. As absurd as it is to laugh right now, I can't stop myself. _

"_Why are you asking now? You never have before, not even the first time." _

_ "I feel like I have no right to take anything from you."_

_Silly girl. You've had me for years. Doesn't she know that? She can have anything she wants. Has she already forgotten what I promised her two days ago? "We're married," I remind her. "I think you're entitled to take whatever you want." _

_Her hands drift to my face. She touches my chin. Her fingers skim over my lips. Her eyes dart back and forth over my face. She seems peculiarly fascinated. It makes me smile. "I don't want to hurt you," she whispers. _

_ Hurt me? Is this what she's thinking about? If she focuses on me, she'll never get through this. I need her to focus on herself and staying alive. "You're not hurting me. You're doing something amazing, something very brave."_

_ "And I'm hurting you in the process. It's likes there's two sides of me I can't compromise. On one hand, I understand why I need to go to Capitol. I may even want to in a strange way. Not because I want to put myself in danger, but because I want to end it all. But then there's this other side that knows how this is hurting you. The side that knows how broken I'll be when I'm separated from you." _

_ She broke my heart when she told me she felt lost while the Capitol held me captive. I never wanted that for her. That's why I gave her the locket during the Quell. I want to give her happiness, and if I can't be the one to do it then I want her to find it somewhere else. She asked the same of me and I denied her the promise. Although, she denied it to me first, back in the Games. This seems to be a topic we will never agree on. _

"_You won't be broken," I assure her. "This is different from before. You didn't know if I was alive or dead. Now you'll know I'm safe and I'm waiting for you." I kiss her before she can respond. I should have done so immediately after she asked. Being able to kiss her freely these past weeks, knowing that she wants me to kiss her, has been one the best experiences of my life. It's what I've always wanted with her. _

_She waits for me to pull away. She touches my lips with her fingers again. "I can't decide if that's better or worse."_

_ I run my hand across her cheek and cup her face. Although we're not having a real argument, she's fighting me on everything I say. Typical Katniss. She always did need a lot of convincing. "Don't be scared. _Please_," I beg. _

_ For some reason, she's the one to smile and laugh now. To have made Katniss smile right now, there's not much more I could ask for. "Well, because you said _please_," she says teasingly._

_My smile fades. I suppose it was a stupid thing to say. As if just asking her not to be scared would take all her worries away. _

_Katniss places her hand on my cheek and forces me to find her eyes. She looks sad and apologetic. I'm so tired of seeing her sad. "Don't be scared. Please?" she asks. _

_ I nod, but I was right. It is stupid. It doesn't make me less scared. Perhaps this is why Katniss has been so pragmatic about the situation, why she's preparing herself for the worst. There's too much to be scared of. My reassurances are not enough. Maybe they've never been enough. _

_ So I kiss her. It's rough and fast. I want to be gentle, but I struggle with the countless amount of emotions trying to escape at the same time. I like to make her feel cherished and loved. I want her to know and believe she's everything to me. And only recently have I been able to prove to her how true those feelings are. _

_But something snaps. There isn't enough time. Katniss can feel it, too. She's grabbing at the hem of my shirt. I let her pull it over my head without thinking. I roll on top of her, forgetting how fatigued I am in the moment. I shove my hand under her shirt and pull at the tank top underneath. I slide my palm over her soft breast. Her sharp gasp fills the room. I lean back, thinking I startled her, but she pulls me tightly against her. _

_I try to memorize everything. The feel of her skin, the smell of her hair, her hot breath against my neck, the raspy sound of her voice that only appears when we're together like this. My senses are overloaded. I forget to whisper how much I love her. I need to pull away to focus enough to speak, but she doesn't allow it. Her hands wrap around the back of my neck and force my mouth to her parted lips. Her tongue slides across my bottom lip. A deep moan erupts from my gut. God, this woman drives me crazy._

_Too crazy. I don't want it to be like this. I've never wanted it to be like this. Well, sure, part of me wants it to be fast and rough, and maybe Katniss does too. I've imagined it this way, but not under these circumstances. This isn't fun or lighthearted or even passionate. This is scary. I don't want this to be our last memory together. This has a finality to it I cannot handle. I understand why Katniss is so afraid of a real goodbye. _

_I slip my hand out from under her shirt, wrapping her up in both my arms instead. I kiss her neck affectionately while her breathing slows down. She can tell something has shifted. She presses her hands against my bare back as I lay my head on her chest—where I can hear her breathe, her heart beating. There aren't any more words to be said. There is no point in arguing anymore. It's sad. It's tragic. There's nothing we can do about it, but hope it will work out. Tears fall. I don't apologize for them. My wife is leaving. She might not come back. _

_ There's a knock at the door that causes us both to jump. Damn that door. When Katniss and I have a house one day we're not going to have a front door—that, or no neighbors._

_ "Katniss," a voice calls out. It's Gale. I squeeze her tightly for a second, but I must be even weaker than I think because she snakes free and stands beside the bed before I can blink. And with barely a brush of her lips to mine, too light to hardly feel it, she turns away and leaves. Thankfully, she grabs her jacket on the way out. At least there is something of me she can take with her. _

_

* * *

_

Suddenly, the ground is moving faster than my legs are. I almost trip and come just shy of knocking my chin on the console in front of me.

"Damn it, Shell! What was that?" I shout when I'm standing straight again. She increased the speed without warning me, and while for some it may have been a joke, Shell's face is intensely serious. Her dark eyebrows are pent in sharp lines over both her eyes. She takes on my cursing like it's nothing. I have to give her credit. If she can deal with difficult patients she's definitely got it in her to be a healer.

"Pay better attention. I'm not here to watch you daydream. We're here to work." She pushes up the sleeves of her shirt. Her skin in unattractively pale. My skin isn't much different.

"I had a long night."

"Don't we all?" she murmurs. I could go into why my night was worse than hers or anyone else's in the compound for that matter, but Shell isn't the person to be making complaints to. She doesn't want to listen to me whine. "Twenty more minutes of this and then we'll move onto stretching, okay?"

"Fine." I take on the increased speed and sweat starts to drop down the side of my face. My breath comes a little harder, which gives me something to focus on. I've never had such issues with endurance in my life. I'm only eighteen years old for God's sake. It wouldn't be such a problem if it didn't come up during other forms of physical exertion.

I can already tell that line of thinking is going to take me down a dangerous path. I swallow once, doing my best to calm my breathing into something comfortable, and throw a question out to the only person I have to talk to. "Can I ask you something?"

"Yes?" Shell answers unenthusiastically as she scans over a clipboard. She's always carrying a clipboard. Reminds me of Effie and her schedules.

"Um…" I scan my brain, trying to come up with a topic of discussion that Shell might be interested in. I know basic information about Shell, but nothing about her interests or even what her family does. We've never had a conversation about anything but my therapy. She doesn't cross me as the type who likes to share. "I was thinking about helping out in the kitchen. With the baking or something," I finish lamely.

She eyes me curiously at first, processing the seemingly innocuous comment, but then her face develops a deep scowl that would rival Katniss'. "Our jobs aren't just foolish ways in which we pass the time," she says with a severe amount of bite in her voice. "Every job, every task is vital to our survival."

"Hey, hey. You don't have to tell me how important bread is," I say with a defensive gesture. She doesn't take to my lighthearted tone. I would like to help out with the resistance, but Haymitch continually deems me "too damned sick" to do anything. I tell him that doesn't mean much coming from an overweight alcoholic, and that's when he usually kicks me out of the meeting. That's one reason I'm indebted to Gale. He kept me up to date on what's going on. He's the only person who could because he was also the only person who wasn't afraid of Katniss. She was adamant about limiting my stress. But now, I'm going to have to do something to fill my time. I can't stand just sitting around the hospital wing. "Honestly Shell, I don't know how to do anything else."

"Well, you weren't _allowed_ to know how to do anything else," she says as she flips through her papers. Her voice reaches an annoying level of superiority.

This time I roll my eyes at her, thinking of stopping the small talk now. It doesn't seem like it's going to be much fun. I wipe at the sweat on my forehead. "Why did you decide to become a healer?" I guess I'm a glutton for punishment.

"I like to help people," she says openly.

Laughter spurts from my throat before I have the good sense to stop it. Shell narrows her eyes at me. I try to pass my chuckling off as coughing.

"What?" she asks.

If I answer honestly she will refuse to speak to me any longer. Instead, I shake my head and say, "nothing. So, everyone here chooses the job they want?"

"Yes, but many choose to follow what their parent's do. My father and mother run the textile plant. It's dreadfully boring."

"You guys are lucky. In Twelve, you're born into the life you're going to lead." _Well, not anymore._

She props her clipboard on her hip. "We're 'born into' quite a bit down here as well."

Oh? So, are we going to have a contest over who grew up in the worst environment? There are shooting pains going down my back, I basically dated my wife while also trying to stay alive, and one of my legs is made of plastic. I could get into that. "Shell, I grew up with an abusive mother, was lucky to have food on the table on a consistent basis, and was chosen to take part in a battle to the death. Twice."

Her nostrils flare as she takes in a breath. Her light skin flushes easily. "You're not the only one who lives with fear. I spent my life afraid that we would be discovered and wiped out like the rest of the district."

"I watched people die on screen as if their lives meant nothing. I was one of those people."

"I'm a native, Peeta. I was born in this god damn hole! I've never felt the wind or seen the sun. I don't even know what those things are beyond a definition."

"I'll tell you now, don't look at the sun. You'll go blind."

"Screw you!" she snaps. She turns around and kicks the closest inanimate object, which happens to be my wheelchair. It clangs violently against the steel wall. I don't say anything. There have been several instances I wanted to the same. She bunches her flat hair under her fist. "You're the one who is blind," she whispers. I barely hear it over the whirring of the walking machine. I feel ridiculous continuing to walk while we're having a shouting match.

Reluctantly, she turns back to me. Her eyes glaze over a little. She's got a look of defeat I've seen on Katniss recently. The sudden flashback throws me off my step for a second.

"Let's just work, okay?" she mumbles.

On top of a sore neck and hip flexors, now I feel guilty. I understand her plight is different from mine. I'll never say it was worse, but she's suffered, too. It's no wonder Shell and I found each other. We're both hopelessly jaded. "Look Shell, you may not see it, but what you've done here is incredible. You have so many more freedoms than I had."

Her eyes drop to the floor. "It comes with a price."

"How did it happen?"

"What do you mean?"

Shell can be a pain, but the thing that drives me most crazy about her is how, despite her isolation, she has lived a far more enlightened life than I have. Thirteen is nothing like Twelve. It isn't anything like any of the districts. They haven't been censored by the Capitol. Thirteen educates its residents about the truth about Panem and the appalling actions of the Capitol. Thirteen is small, with a population less than Twelve's, but that doesn't matter. What makes Thirteen more dangerous than any other district, what would cause the Capitol to drop bombs if they knew it was here, is not the explosives that it harbors, it's the fact that thirteen is _self-sustaining_. They know how to do everything. Farm, mine, fish, build. They survive without the Capitol. Hell, they thrive without the Capitol. _That's_ what makes Thirteen a threat. And how they hell did they end up with all the knowledge?

I've never asked about the rise and fall of Thirteen seventy-five years ago because, for one, I was struggling with the ability to sit upright for some time, and secondly, because it might not matter. Everyone is so concerned with the future; no one wonders about the past. Except for Shell. She seems to be stuck in it. "How did Thirteen become the hub of rebellious activity? It was just a mining district like Twelve, wasn't it?"

Shell takes a few steps toward me. She takes a seat on a weightlifting bench, her shoulders droop and she doesn't look at me. "True, it was. However, back then the Capitol had a much larger presence here than it did in any other district. Thirteen was involved in the production of _nuclear_ _weapons_. It was too serious and too dangerous to go unsupervised." Already, life in pre-bombed thirteen sounds unpleasant. Not until after my first Hunger Games did I have a feel for what it was for the Capitol to have an active presence in the district. We never had it good, but what we did have was preferable to the floggings, arrests, and killings. Despite my interest in freedom and truth, I contemplate if having knowledge like Thirteen did would have been worth it.

"I get it. But I would think the Capitol's presence would make it more difficult to start a rebellion," I say. We were afraid to even say the word "rebellion" in Twelve, and we didn't face the wrath of the Capitol on a daily basis.

"Difficult to keep secret, but very easy to start."

My eyebrows come together, partly because I don't quite understand her meaning, and partly because of a cramp beginning to form in my side. I think she takes my grimace purely for confusion because she continues her explanation.

"Another part of Thirteen was the technological community—the people that developed the bombs and the weaponry. This community was made up primarily of people from the Capitol or other districts." This is a huge difference between Thirteen and Twelve that I didn't know existed. The Games were the only thing that brought Capitol residents to Twelve. And they were just Peacekeepers sent to oppress us. The Capitol brought _educated_ people to Thirteen.

"People were constantly coming and going?" I question.

"Yes. Some of the moles from District 1 and District 4 made it down here. They're all gone now." _The moles_. That's what the younger generation likes to call themselves—sort-of an inside joke. I've yet to find out if it's a phrase the rebels used to describe themselves during the rebellion seventy-five years ago, or if some native kids came up with it when they learned what a mole was.

"They were…shocked…at how different life was outside the Capitol." She laughs—an unusual thing to hear coming from Shell. It's a good sound though. It takes some of her sourness away. "Over time those same people grew sympathetic." It's hard to imagine people from the Capitol being remotely capable of sympathy, especially the kind of sympathy that leads to rebellion. They cheer when someone dies on the screen. They make heartless bets on who lives and who dies. They take our resources without a second thought. They accept the work of Avox's, who are slaves, even if they don't call them that. They do one deplorable thing after another without it having any affect on their consciences. Shell is confusing me more than she is helping me to understand.

Disguising the discomfort in my side is getting more and more difficult. My limp becomes more pronounced. I ignore it. I'm more interested in what she has to say. "Are you saying it was the people from the Capitol that started the rebellion back then?" I ask with a huff.

Shell nods. She bites her lip as she holds back her enthusiasm. For once, the scowl is not taking over her face. "They brought everything," she explains. Her eyes light up as she reaches the high point of the story, "Books, computers, maps—anything that would educate the people here. Of course, this was high treason, so that's when the underground insurgence, both literal and figurative, began."

I'm not paying close enough attention to my stride as I take in her story, causing me to stumble a little. I simultaneously work on steadying my pace and breathing. The Capitol could not have created its own demise more perfectly. Not only did it create a horrific environment for its citizens to rally against, it gave the district, albeit illegally, the very knowledge and resources it needed to rebel. This must be why all communication between the districts was cut off. It's the reason our educations mean nothing. There is no point in a revolution if we can't sustain ourselves, and we can't create rebel if we have no contact with the rest of the nation. Things have changed though. We do have contact with other districts and we're willing to share knowledge to support one another. However, seventy-five years ago, Panem was in exactly the same situation. Shell and I both know how the story ends. The attempt at rebellion, although noble, was not successful.

"People got scared," Shell says sadly. She looks down at her clipboard and fingers the edges. "Word of revolution spread to other districts and things were leaked. There wasn't time to stop the riots. Those who made it down here were lucky. It's amazing the compound was one secret that was not revealed. There were far more dead than saved."

The bombs. The Capitol got wind of the rebellion at hand and they dropped bombs. They obliterated Thirteen, and as far as they know, killed all the people inhabiting it. Perhaps the Capitol's depravity and disregard for human life is a learned behavior. It was _Capitol _residents who found the fault in Panem's system and created the resistance so many years ago, so they must have felt love and sympathy like humans should. But after so many years of watching what the Capitol deems as "entertainment," eventually, one will start to think of it as entertainment because it's easier than listening to one's conscience, especially when it's not your life at stake. Perhaps the Capitol residents shouldn't be held responsible for what Snow has done. But as I think on what I've seen in my short lifetime, I don't know that the Capitol has the capacity for compassion anymore. The Games have destroyed it.

Consequently…if they find Katniss…they won't show her mercy. What's the best I can hope for? That they'll torture her like they did me? They will kill her. She'll be gone.

"Peeta!" Shell shouts suddenly. Something smacks loudly against the floor. She's shouting because the strength of my arms and legs has given out and I'm falling onto the console in front of me. She pushes a few buttons and the ground stops moving. She throws my arm over her shoulders and helps me back into my wheelchair, which is further away since she kicked it. I'm panting the entire time. The scowl on Shell's face returns as she squats next to my chair. "You're supposed to say something if you're feeling weak." She forces my head between my knees. Even though I don't feel dizzy, I keep my head down until my breathing evens out.

"I was trying to push myself," I mumble.

Shell releases an annoyed huff at my explanation. "Why are you being stupid? You're not well enough. Straining yourself is not going to make you better. If you keep this up I'm going to tell Katniss."

I look up quick enough to catch something I've never seen before. Shell is covering her mouth and looks absolutely horrified at what she just said. She broke the rule. She mentioned Katniss. The very thing I'm trying to take my mind off of. I realize that just isn't possible. It never has been.

"I'm sorry—"

"Don't," I interrupt. She'll make it worse if she apologizes.

Shell bites her lip again and looks away. Perhaps she does that more often than I realize. I just never took care to notice. My mind has been occupied by someone else. "As a whole," she begins a moment later, "that's more than ten minutes less than last time you worked out. See what I mean about delaying your progress?" Her voice regains the disapproval I'm used to. She's trying to pretend to be normal. Although, only a day ago, threatening to go to Katniss would have been normal. "How's your temperature?" She touches my forehead like she would a child's. I instantly bat her hand away. Undaunted, she grabs my wrist. "Your heart rate?"

I yank my arm back. "Fine," I growl.

"Maybe we should take your blood pressure."

"I'm fine, Shell. I'm just…tired," I sigh. This much isn't a lie. I feel like I could sleep for days. Undoubtedly, there would be some very unpleasant nightmares throughout. And I don't have a fever. I need to rub my hands together to warm them up.

"Then you should sleep at night," she says bitingly.

"Thanks for the advice," I snap back. We're back to our old verbal sparring match.

She leans back on her heels; then lets her bottom hit the floor. She reaches out to touch where she threw her dearly loved clipboard and slides it across the concrete until it's in front of her. I expect to see some kind of medical papers clipped to the board and there are a few on the top. She lifts up those pages. I see something unexpected. It's a sketch, and a fairly decent one at that. Hell, if I knew she could draw I would have talked about that. It's a landscape pencil drawing, but there is something off about it. There is a disconnect between each of the items on the page. It's a mix of plants I've never seen together before. It's because they're not supposed to be together. Shell must have drawn a combination of things she wishes to see. She may have all the knowledge, but at the same time, she's missed so much. I've been resenting her because, to me, Shell represents all the things that are preventing me from improving, while at the same time, she's been resenting me because I represent all the things she's never been able to experience. I am the blind one.

She lets the papers fall back over her drawing and sighs. "Peeta, I know this is something you won't want to hear, but I'm going to say it anyway." Her warning should be enough to make me tell her to stop, but I don't. "The greatest heroes of Thirteen are the people from other districts or the Capitol that made it down here. They left _everything_ behind in their districts, their families and loved ones. And the reason they did it was not so they could make sure we had a place to hide. The tunnels have kept us safe; however, that is not its true purpose."

I think about the excitement she had in her eyes as she told the story. What would make men and women willing to give up their lives? What reason is there to fight a war? "You saved the information," I finally conclude.

"Yes. It's the only thing here that is simultaneously protected and shared. It was fiercely protected by those before us to make certain that we have a chance for survival, another chance to fight the Capitol, but it's shared freely with anyone who wants to learn. It's the only thing that makes a new future possible."

I know what she's trying to do. She's trying to convince me how highly honored these people are to have been willing to give up everything. How it _was_ worth all the danger and deaths.

"We weren't sure what to think of you when you came," Shell says into the quiet. An odd smirk crosses her lips. "Any of you. We thought you had started a war you weren't prepared to fight. But you and…and Katniss," she flinches when she says her name, afraid she's going to set me off or something. "I don't need to tell you how brave you are. Both of you carry the spirit of what Thirteen is all about. You fight for life and truth."

I know, in theory, that everything she says is right and admirable. I know that what Katniss is doing puts her on the same level as Thirteen's heroes. If she succeeds or if…if she dies…she'll be Panem's greatest hero. It doesn't make the ache go away. Even though I let her go, I don't know that I'll ever think it's worth it to lose her.

Shell picks herself and her clipboard up off the floor. She dusts off the debris from her dark grey denim pants. "I think that's enough for now. Will you come back this afternoon?" she asks.

"I don't know. I'm really tired," I groan.

"Fine. Get some rest. See you in the morning?"

"Right."

She turns to leave. Her flat shoes barely make a sound against the floor. I've learned more about Shell in these few minutes than I've learned in the past month. I need to say something. Improve my manners somehow. "Shell?" I call out. She turns back around. "Thanks." It's a dumb thing to say, but polite at least. Shell doesn't smile, but she nods before she leaves the room.

I follow her path and roll myself back to my room. The best thing to do is sleep. Perhaps I'll be so tired I won't dream. Perhaps when I wake up she'll be here. That's what I've come to look forward to since I came here.


	7. Nerves

A/N: Lots of stuff for you guys to check out. I'm hosting a HG fanfic contest called _Countdown to Mockingjay_. The theme is post-_Catching Fire_ fics. Go to my profile to get the link. Send in those entries! And I'm still looking for judges. The only requirements are that you're 18 or older and enthusiastic about HG fic.

Also on my profile, check out the link to the _2010 The Hunger Games Fic Awards_. Make sure your favorite fic is nominated, whatever that may be. ;)

Follow me on twitter if you feel like it: KenoshaChick10

Many thanks to Medea Smyke for pre-reading!

This chapter is rated M for some brief sexual content.

**Nerves **

_His lips move hungrily over my throat. I pant like an idiot trying to keep up with the heavy speed of my heart. I press myself to him shamelessly, my hands gripping the slick plane of his lower back. I want to draw him as close as possible. He responds in kind, matching me breath for breath. There's no anxiety, no trepidation. There's no time for it. Just him, me, and the rampant fire that flows from my stomach into my limbs. For once, his skin is cooler than mine._

_ Oh god…his skin. His head perks up. He smirks. Did I say that out loud? I shrug. Who the hell cares? He leans down again to kiss me a little more than chastely. My hands slide over his bare chest. The skin there is soft and smooth and oddly hairless. Why couldn't they have done that to my body and avoided the painful repetitive methods? I grimace, thinking the method used on Peeta may have been more painful. I should ask him about that one day. _

_A shaky laugh escapes my throat. How do I manage to get distracted when he's touching me? Peeta's hand, slightly rough and calloused from pushing the wheelchair around for weeks, cups my breast. I can't help but suck in a breath in surprise. He pulls back. _

No. Don't. Close. I need you close_. _

_My fingers run from the nape of his neck through his hair. He needs to get it cut. He's got more of a Seam look to him now, with his longer hair and bruises under his eyes. It doesn't fit him. I miss well-fed, muscled, healthy, and scar-less Peeta. It physically pains me to see him suffering. But for some bizarre reason, I want to kiss every one of the scars that litter his otherwise perfect skin in thankfulness. It's the scars that have brought Peeta to me. _

_I part my lips and he follows. My body is burning up and desperately seeking reprieve. I press myself to him again instinctively. My body has a much clearer idea of what it's looking for now, and my head is unclear enough to let my body take control. Peeta's fingers deftly sneak away from their place on my chest. His mouth is open as he kisses my neck. He leans back a little, so he's lying on his side. I start to protest again until I feel a tickle on my stomach. His hand moves across a slice of exposed skin. I glance down to see it hover over the stiff edge of my standard issue trousers. His thumb grazes over the button. My voice catches in my throat and makes a sound between a choke and a squeak. I can't even manage a syllable in the heat of the moment. He chuckles warmly and unsnaps the button. _

"_Peeta…," I breathe. I lay my hand over his, intending to urge him on. Instead, he takes my hand and pulls it against his chest. He leans back into me and places his cheek against mine. I can feel his breath against my ear when he whispers. _

_ "Come back. Come back to me." _

_

* * *

_

I wake up with an uncomfortable gasp, choking on my own breath. My breathing mimics the timing of my dream exactly. My chest is tight and my head feels peculiarly heavy, especially after sleeping. I lay my arm over my forehead. Strands of hair cling to my sweat-lined brow.

I've been plagued by nightmares for months but never in my life have I had a dream like that. A blending of reality and…what? Fantasy? I don't remember going to sleep. Nor do I remember making my way down to the sleeping quarters on the lower level.

Suddenly, my bed shakes and my arms immediately fling to the wall at the head of the bed and the one on the side. As if I could actually brace myself for some kind of crash. I wait a few seconds, preparing to feel my stomach bottom out as we head into a deadly tailspin, but nothing happens. My shoulder muscles loosen and I exhale loudly. I can't wait to have two feet on the ground again. I haven't gotten used to the constant turbulence yet. This, again, makes me wonder how I ended up asleep. Every time this tin can hits a bump in the air I tense up, not conducive to taking a nap. The hovercrafts from the Capitol never bothered me; however, they ran smoothly. This ancient piece of anti-gravity has seen its fair share of action and doesn't run like it used to. One of the pilots, appropriately nicknamed Wing, assures me it's reliable. I'll believe him after we've landed.

I rub my hands over my eyes a few times. My muscles finally relax after being keyed up by the dream and then panicked by the turbulence; nevertheless, my head is still groggy. I reach through the hazy memory the dream, attempting to grasp the images my subconscious concocted before they fade away. It was my last few moments with Peeta; maybe what they would have been if Peeta hadn't stopped what was happening. As much as I enjoyed the feel of his skin, it was right for him to stop us. We would have regretted something so quick and mindless. It wasn't my intention for anything to happen when I went back to our room. I couldn't even convince myself to wake him up. When we were together in his…_our_ bed, begging each other to be brave, to have hope in this impossible situation, I didn't know what to do with the impulses my body was sending me. Since I was eleven years old my life has been food, water, sleep, live. Never love—that is, never…_physical_ love. The fear was overwhelming and clouded all my judgment until I all desired was him with me in the closest way possible. Unfortunately, that kind of closeness makes it hard to appreciate the moment. Peeta brought us back into reality, harsh as it was…is.

It's too dim down here to know what time it is, but I have a feeling I've slept for too long. The comfort of this bed is a step up from the hospital bed, but the stupid hovercraft is far more cramped than the tunnels of 13. Who would have thought I'd miss those wide open spaces? It isn't even big enough for five people to sleep in. Haymitch insisted we take the smallest craft to avoid detection, but it seems to me that if anyone from the Capitol saw a twenty-five year old machine flying around, they'd be suspicious.

The bedroom amounts to two sets of bunk beds only eighteen inches apart and a bathroom so small you can't do much more than stand in it. The age of the plane is astoundingly apparent. I grew up in a house with two rooms, but this can-like atmosphere is claustrophobic. Feeling the need to escape, I rub the residual sleepiness from my eyes and stand up. I successfully avoid knocking my forehead against the top bunk, but my head is spinning when I'm standing fully. I have to lean against the wall to avoid falling over. Must have stood up too fast. Once the dizziness subsides, I conduct a quick search for my shoes. Someone put me to bed quite thoroughly. Fully dressed, I climb up a short ladder which leads to the kitchen on the top level of the hovercraft, proving putting me to bed even more impressive. How did anyone manage to carry me down a ladder without waking me?

I find Madge alone in the kitchenette, which is no bigger than the kitchen in my old house in the Seam. She sits at the booth-style table with a deck of cards. She's playing solitaire. I've noticed everyone has taken to an activity to deal with the mounting stress. Gale likes to pace. Wing likes to eat. I guess I've taken to passing out.

"Good-morning," Madge calls out kindly as she shuffles the deck of cards. I cross the room and take a seat next to her on the squeaky vinyl banquette that surrounds a semi-circular table.

"Is it morning?" I grumble. I glance through a string of small windows directly behind Madge's head. All I can see is blue sky.

"Well, a little after twelve," she says with a kind smile.

"Why did you let me sleep for so long?" I ask, but it wasn't long enough. My head still feels cloudy. I fold my arms and lay my head down on the cold table.

"Why not?" She shrugs. "There isn't anything to do."

We're heading out on a life or death mission and there's nothing to do? "There must be something," I reply through a yawn. Even as I say it I keep my head down.

"Yes, you can play a game of five card draw with me." She starts passing out the cards. I just stare at them as they land an inch from my face.

_I'm undefeated at gin rummy. _

I turn my neck so my face is hidden from Madge. I don't want her to see my skin flush or anything else that makes my weakness apparent. It's not even the same game and my mind is instantly flooded with images of Peeta. I want to reach into my pocket and pull out the note from him, but somehow I find the will to hold back. When did this happen? I used to thrive in my independence and now when I'm separated from Peeta for only a day I fall apart. Peeta called me strong and capable. I'm glad he's not here to see me like this. Miserable and scared out of my wits.

I feel my hair being pushed back and warm hand on my shoulder. "What is it?" Madge's angelic voice asks.

I turn my head to see her smiling sadly at me. She knows. Hell, even the idiots at the Capitol who fell for my fake love story could guess correctly. I want to tell Madge, one of my best friends, that I miss my husband, but I can't. She's the worst candidate to listen to my sorrows. Compared to her, my behavior is immature. Peeta and I may be separated, but we're both alive and relatively safe. Madge is alone and has been for months. Yet, she's expressed more resilience and bravery than anyone I know. "Nothing. I'm just remembering something."

"We'll get you back to him," she promises. She squeezes my shoulder and gives me a sisterly kiss on the cheek. She gathers up her cards and impassively looks them over. She's doing this to distract me. There isn't much point to playing poker with Madge. She never loses. "But for now, how many cards do you want?"

Reluctantly, I pick up the well-worn cards and look them over. Two sevens, the queen of diamonds, the ten of clubs, and the five of hearts. Not a bad hand. "Three," I reply. I discard everything but the sevens and she deals me three more. Nothing improves. She takes two for herself. "Where are we?"

"Somewhere between Thirteen and the Capitol," she says as she adjusts her cards. She doesn't offer an inkling as to the quality of her hand or to more details.

"Are we playing poker for information?" I complain.

"It'll be several hours still. Now, what have you got?"

I exhale, clearly irritated. I know I haven't been myself lately, but I don't like being babied either. I'm on this team. How could it possibly be helpful to keep me in the dark? I stare Madge down for a few seconds waiting for her to give up the information. The old Madge would have cracked with the first appearance of harshness in my eyes, but the Madge I'm looking over now doesn't let a single emotion pass over her face. It's the mastering of that skill that has gotten her where she is now, an officer in the rebellion. Losing her family affected her greatly, but she found a way to set her sadness aside and focus on new goals. If she had fallen into an overwhelming depression like I did, she would not have been allowed her to train with the soldiers. They would have sent her to work in the kitchens or the hospital wing, where I've been. The only reason I'm here is because I'm the Mockingjay. I sigh and let my hand show, backing down. She smiles when she sees my hand. Three jacks appear when she lowers her cards. I don't know how she does it. Good thing we're not playing for secrets. I'd have to tell her I got married. I'm not ready to share yet.

As I collect cards to start another round, familiar boisterous laughter floats from down the hall. Coincidently, it's Gale who enters the kitchen first with a typical grimace on his face. Wing, the source of the laughter, follows behind him looking typically cheerful. Undoubtedly, Gale has been the butt of one of Wing's jokes. He loves to tease Gale about his beard for some reason; calls him Wild Man. I think Gale refuses to shave it just to spite him. I see right through Gale though. He likes Wing better than he lets on.

Gale perks up when he sees me…or maybe when he sees _us_. It's hard to tell. "Oh, look who decided to get up," he teases as he gives me a nudge. He sits beside me while Wing bumps into Madge as he slides into the opposite end of the banquette.

"Oh, and what time did you wake up? Couldn't have been more than an hour ago," Madge fires back at him.

Gale smile instantly turns back into a frown. I can barely see the creases in his forehead just under his hair. Oh, Madge. Why do you do this to him? "I didn't sleep until two hours after you went to bed."

"I should have guessed. I think you stepped on my arm when you climbed into bed."

"I did not."

"I'll show you the bruise!"

Wow. It only took them five seconds to start going at it. I remain quiet because I don't know what they're talking about. How did I sleep through all this?

"What are we playing?" Wing asks, completely ignoring the bickering. Madge's voice practically turns musical when she responds.

"Five card draw. You want in?"

"Come on, Ace. Haven't you cleaned me out enough?" he whines. Madge's cheeks flush a light shade of pink. Wing has that effect on all the girls. Even without taking into account his overt friendliness, the size of his biceps sends most girls swooning. That and the fact that he gives every girl he meets a nickname. Maybe only the girls he's interested in. I haven't heard mine yet.

"Aren't you supposed to be flying this thing?" I snap at him. Something about his jovial attitude and noticeable flirting bothers me. It's not jealousy, more like irritation. It's unfair of me. Just because I'm unhappy doesn't mean everyone should be. Either way, his smile doesn't even twitch. My scowl has truly lost all effect.

"Garrett can handle it for a little while." He refers the second pilot/mechanic. I roll my eyes and begin to pass out the cards.

The games go by quickly. Eventually, we have to improvise with pieces of dried apricot for poker chips because playing for nothing is "just plain boring" according to Wing. Actually, the set-up is exactly what the poker games played in the training areas in 13 late at night are like. The people of Thirteen don't deal with any kind of currency, so stolen food stuffs are bet and lost. It's as illegal as anything that went down in the Hob. You get caught with stolen food in 13 and you may find yourself on the surface in the crater that was 13. As Wing mentioned, Madge always wins. She avoids punishment by quickly getting rid of all her contraband, bringing her winnings to the hospital wing to share with the patients. We let it slide because anyone recovering from illness or an injury could use more to eat. And even now, Madge's pile is significantly larger than everyone else's. Gale comes in second, I'm in third, and Wing, who lacks any kind of poker face, comes in last.

"I swear, Ace. You've got cards up your sleeves. Do you need to be frisked before we start playing a game?" He grabs her arm, raising it above her head, leaving the edges of her unzipped jacket unguarded. He draws open the coat and pretends to search for hidden cards, tickling her at the same time. The only hidden item I see is Madge's most prized possession these days, her gun. She giggles playfully and doesn't do much to fend him off. Gale clears his throat loudly. The two glance at him, taking stock of the sour look on his face. As a result, both the tickling and giggling abruptly cease.

"Yeah, it couldn't just be that you're a lousy poker player, huh Wing?" Gale says tersely. What is that look on Gale's face? Anger? Annoyance? And something else. It's hard to tell because Gale is so often angered and annoyed by Madge. She and Gale have never been friends, even back in Twelve, but now it's like they're in constant competition with each other. Neither one lets that go for a moment. At least, I haven't seen them behave any other way. Regardless, Madge's face is stained red now, perhaps from embarrassment. She busies herself by gathering up all the cards. Wing runs his hand through his short warm brown hair while letting a big, heartwarming laugh. "Just a bit of fun, Wild Man." Gale just stares at Madge's hands as she arranges the cards into a stack.

Suddenly, the hovercraft shakes again. What are we hitting? The tops of trees? It reminds me of where we are or where we are going at least. At first glance you'd think we are just having a good old time with friends, not flying into a warzone.

"Don't you think this is strange?" I ask sharply.

"What?" Madge asks.

"Sitting here like we're not about to—"

"Katniss, stop," Madge interrupts. "If you spend all your time thinking and talking about it you're going to go crazy. We're here to do a job. That's how you have to look at it. And right now we have some down time."

I look to Wing or Gale, especially Gale, to disagree with her, but neither man steps up. Madge has become a soldier through and through. Brave and strong and able to detach emotionally from what we're doing. I've gone in the complete opposite direction. Everything sends me in an emotional tailspin lately. And the idea of more killing of innocents scares the hell out of me. This must be why Madge is so careful with me. She doesn't think I can take it. Maybe I can't.

"Yeah, and Ace likes to take us for all we're worth," Wing says to break the tension. That's what he's best at.

"Can you at least tell me how much further we have to go?" I beg.

"We're getting closer. About two hours from our first rendezvous point," Gale explains. Thank God for Gale. He's the only person who treats me like I'm actually part of this mission. I notice Madge throws him a look of disapproval. Gale narrows his eyes back at her.

"That's where we ditch the hovercraft?" I ask.

"Yes."

"And everything is clear there still?"

"Yes, Katniss," Madge interrupts again before Gale can tell me more. "Please try and be calm."

"Yeah, you're going to drive us all nuts, Little Bird," Wing says with a grin. _That's_ my nickname? That's hardly creative.

"And Wing might slip something in your granola again," Gale mutters under his breath. My scowl may not work anymore, but my hearing is just fine, courtesy of the Capitol.

"What? He what?" I glare at Wing. He's got his hands up in a defensive pose while Madge covers her eyes in exasperation. Suddenly the reason for my groggy head and full night of sleep comes into focus. "You gave me sleep syrup, didn't you?" I accuse.

"Just a touch."

"And you didn't stop him?" I look to both Madge and Gale. The proud smirk Gale had on his lips from tattling falters a little.

"You were a little on edge, Katniss," Madge offers as an excuse.

"Just some nerves, no big deal. You didn't miss anything," Wing says as he readjusts a leather cuff bracelet on his wrist and then plays with a large silver ring on his finger.

"Unbelievable."

"Don't be so put out." He moves the ring from his right hand onto his left. "You've done it before." He's referencing my use of sleep syrup against Peeta in the Games. That was a life or death situation. I didn't drug him because he was bugging me.

"Not remotely similar situations."

"You'll live, Little Bird. You had a better night's sleep than the rest of us."

"Yeah, great." He doesn't understand how dangerous forcing me to sleep is. My dream of Peeta is a blessing, I guess. It may have been a little jarring because it is so new to me, but it is preferable to the nightmares. Nightmares I could very soon be experiencing again without Peeta here. No wonder I'm so on edge. Awake or asleep my life is a nightmare.

Wing bites his lip and looks more uncomfortable than I've ever seen him, but he doesn't offer any apologies. He's used to making the girls laugh, not cry. "I'm going to go to the front and give Garrett a rest."

_Making a break for it I see._

"I'll come with you," Madge offers. The two of them slip out from behind the table and walk toward the flight deck. I notice Gale is purposefully staring at the backs of his hands, but his eyes flicker towards Madge when she passes by, when he knows that she won't be able to tell he's looking at her. I take this moment to punch him in the shoulder. Hard.

"Ow!" He rubs up and down his arm several times.

"I can't believe you let him give me sleep syrup! How would you feel if someone knocked you out during a mission?"

"Depends on who is knocking me out."

"Don't do it again," I say sternly.

"I didn't do it the first time. You should be taking this out on Wing."

"And stop keeping things from me. It's annoying and just careless!" I shout, jumping to a new topic. Apparently, I'm not much for coherent arguing. I blame the sleep syrup.

"Again, that's not me. That's Madge. She thinks you're in too fragile a state of mind."

"Why would Haymitch send me on a mission if I'm too fragile?"

Gale shrugs his shoulders in response. I don't believe his ignorance. Gale knows everything about the rebellion and he'd certainly make it his business to know how I might be involved. And Haymitch wouldn't send me on a mission I'm not capable of completing. He made such a big deal about Finnick not being allowed to go, not to mention he used Finnick to make me feel guilty. I trained and studied for days for this mission. I left my husband behind because I had a larger purpose to fulfill. I'm supposed to be here.

I feel ready to stand up and give Madge a knock in the teeth. But before I do, I take stock of the contents spilled onto the table. Snacks and cards and bottles of fizzy water—the remnants of a rather pleasant hour or so. I think of Madge's kind smile and remember that her only real desire is to take care of me. So guess I can't blame her for protecting me. I wasn't in a very good place for months. While she was training alongside the other soldiers I was hiding in the hospital wing with the other hopeless cases. In fact, there are others like Madge who could have taken my spot if necessary. But Haymitch was adamant that I go along. Why? What's the point when there are others who are better practiced than I am?

Little Bird. Of course. I'm the Mockingjay. I'm the symbol.

"Haymitch just wants…the Mockingjay," I whisper calmly. "Am I supposed to do anything on this mission other show my face?"

Gale shakes his head. "This war is almost over. This is the final push, and yes, it would raise morale if people know you are alive. But Haymitch would be an idiot to think that's all you'll do. We know how smart you are. We trust you."

"If that's true you can start by telling me exactly what's going to happen at the rendezvous point."

Gale's lips form a tight line underneath his beard. He really should shave it. Beards aren't common in the Capitol. He takes several seconds to consider my demand. Funny. He's more scared of Madge than he is of me. "It's outside of District Three," he finally explains. "Three, Two, and One are the only districts that are completely under the Capitol's control. The problem has been getting in or getting people out. The Capitol has brought most of their defenses to those districts. Getting in is going to be the most dangerous part." He pauses, rubbing the back of his neck a few times. "Hopefully, from there we can catch a ride with a hovercraft that is scheduled to move into the Capitol with supplies for the hospital. We meet up with our contact and set up the device. If we have enough time, we get Cresta, and board a flight out of there before anything happens."

I roll my eyes at Gale. Everything he said are things I already know. I want details. "How large is the hospital?"

"Larger than I have any comprehension of."

I'll give him a break on that one. I was the one who spent time there. You'd think I'd know. But I suppose the size of the hospital isn't really the issue. I soften my voice a little. "If everything goes to plan, how many people are going to die?"

"That's the kind of thing Madge doesn't want us to think about," he says lowly.

"Fine," I concede. I'm not going to get anything else out of him right now. And maybe Madge is right. If we think about it we might talk ourselves out it. Can't have that.

However, one thing I've decided, I'm not going to be the weak link on this mission any longer. I've gone from being the most sought after victor to the protected and nearly useless foot soldier. I'm with people I love dearly, Madge and Gale. Even Garrett and Wing, though I don't know them as well. These people are my family and I protect my family.

_You'll stay safe for me, right? _

The words echo in my head. My stomach tightens up with nerves and guilt again. I promised Peeta I would try to stay safe. I also need to promise everyone here that I will fight bravely alongside them. I can't keep both promises.

"Do you think something is going on with them?" Gale asks suddenly. He shifts in his seat once, then takes a bottle of water and throws it back and forth in his hands. He deliberately avoids looking me in the eye.

"Huh?" I respond.

He opens the bottle and takes a long swig. He wipes him mouth with his sleeve. _Nice, Gale_. "With Wing and Madge?"

"I…I don't know," I stammer. I'm honestly surprised about the turn in conversation. But I can see where he got the idea. The behavior is normal for Wing; he flirts with anything that moves, but Madge is usually more closed off—a lot like Gale really. But why bring it up? He couldn't be…jealous. It wasn't until Peeta suggested that the right girl for Gale is the one he fights with most that I even considered Madge as a candidate. That is who he fights with most. "Why do you ask?" I hedge.

"It's inappropriate is all."

"What is? That Madge has a boyfriend?"

"She shouldn't be going on missions with someone she's involved with. It will emotionally compromise her."

I slap a hand to my forehead. "I'm sick of hearing about that _emotionally compromised_ garbage," I snap. Given how gently everyone has been treating me, it's obvious I'm emotionally compromised and they sent me anyway. I'm beginning to think Haymitch made the whole thing up. It seems more likely he didn't let me go on the mission to save Peeta because he couldn't risk losing the Mockingjay. Then he used it against me again to make sure I'd go on this mission. He is seriously getting a knock in the head when I get back. "Are you honestly going to deny your relationship with me doesn't emotionally compromise you?"

"Well…," he begins, but he doesn't say anything else.

"Exactly. We've all been compromised by our pasts. Our emotional connections to one another are the driving reasons we're part of this war. If Madge can manage to find a little happiness after everything she's been though, she deserves it." I finish my speech confidently. Gale keeps his eyes off of me; his shoulders fall in defeat.

"Just doesn't seem like her type," he mumbles. Wing is tall, muscled, with hazel eyes, a kind smile, often seen without a shirt, and a tattoo of a hawk on his back. He is just about every girl's type. I don't say this to Gale though. It might bruise his sensitive male ego.

"Madge has many facets," I say instead.

"I've noticed."

Hm. I'm not sure what to make of Gale's comment. "Noticed" can have different connotations. Peeta mentioned to me once that he "noticed" girls other than me, but I took it as something every guy does. But Gale brought Madge up. He's the one asking about her. Maybe Peeta's instincts are correct. And if they are, Gale is sure doing a lot to cover up his affections. "You mean, when you're not bickering with her?"

"Madge and I do not bicker."

Now the boy is just delusional. "You two fight constantly."

"She just…gets under my skin sometimes."

"Why? Because she's better at shooting than you?"

"Hardly," he objects. "She isn't nearly as consistent as I am."

"Because she's the same rank as you?"

"I don't care about that."

He's not threatened by her status and he still thinks himself better skilled. That doesn't leave much for him to be bothered by. "Then it must be because you have nothing to hold against her anymore."

Gale's eyes snap to mine. His dark eyebrows shoot up under the hair that falls over his forehead. "What is that supposed to mean?"

"You've always had a problem with her or anyone like her. Anyone from town."

"They're so unaware of what they have, of what they don't have to go through." He reiterates a long-standing complaint that simply doesn't have merit any longer. There is no town. There is no District 12. The past has absolutely no reflection on what our future will be, whether we win this war or not. And most importantly, every person on this hovercraft is taking the same amount of risk with their lives.

"We're not in Twelve anymore. We're nowhere near it. Not to mention the two of you are on equal playing fields, perhaps less for her, considering she has no family to speak of, and it bothers you that she handles it so well," I accuse.

"I don't want to see Madge fall to pieces," he insists.

"You don't want to see her succeed but you don't want to see her fall apart either." Gale opens his mouth to respond, but no sound comes out. I have to give Madge credit. She has left the young revolutionary, who spent hour after hour ranting to the trees and woodland creatures, speechless. "You have to accept that your perception of her was wrong. You have to start seeing her for who she really is."

He huffs through his nose. He takes the bottle he was drinking from, which is now empty, and tosses it across the small room where it lands in a trashcan. "I can see she has a thing for Wing," he grunts.

_Maybe she does. _I keep the thought to myself. Again, I can't do that to Gale's ego. He'll just have to stew over my claims for a while and decide if he wants to start being nice to Madge. I have my own bone to pick with him anyway. "I was informed recently that you and Peeta have been speaking regularly for a couple weeks?"

Gale visibly stiffens and tries to fake a laugh. "Who told you that?"

"Who do you think?" We lock eyes for a few seconds. He's trying to feel out whether or not I'm bluffing. I seem to have found my old confidence because I don't back down. Finally, Gale folds his arms over the table and frowns.

"That little snitch."

"I can't believe you! Both of you. I've barely seen you share a civil word let alone spend time together."

"I don't know how it happened."

"He said that you shouted at him."

Gale has the audacity to laugh at my accusation—as if he's remembering a fond memory. "Oh…yeah."

"You told him I never want to get married?"

"He's _your _boyfriend. Don't you talk about this stuff?"

_Boyfriend._ I've completely stopped thinking of Peeta as my boyfriend, even though I haven't revealed my newly married status to anyone. I can't bring myself to tell Gale though, and not because I fear it might upset him. Well, maybe a little. It's just, my relationship was on display for everyone to dissect and judge for years. It still is. To be honest, I'm not ready to share. I want to keep this between my husband and me for a while. I want something to go without being judged. I know what I did is right. It makes me happy. Very little has made me happy as of late, including what Gale did to Peeta. "You said that to hurt his feelings."

"I'm sorry, okay? I wasn't in the best state of mind. And besides, I apologized for that a while back."

"Well, good," I finish lamely. I don't know why I'm so upset Peeta and Gale have been spending time together. I didn't think it would ever happen, but that doesn't mean I didn't want it to happen. Maybe it's so far out of my realm of logic that I just can't accept it as reality. "You talk about the rebellion with him?"

"He says you won't talk about it."

"I don't want him upset."

"You can't be serious. You're such a hypocrite."

"He's been through _enough_. I don't want him involved if he doesn't have to be."

"He can take it, Katniss. You don't have to treat him like he's made of glass. Isn't his involvement up to him anyway?"

"No, it's not. We're…," I pause, coming too close to saying the word married. "…together. And he's not well. He has made a lot of progress, but he's still sick. And telling him about the rebellion just makes him more desperate and when he's desperate he does stupid things."

"Huh," he grunts, leaning back against the banquette and placing his hands in his lap.

"What?"

"Nothing. You too really are meant for each other."

What have I ever done that was desperate…other than…everything I did in the Quell? I keep my mouth shut. I don't need these things pointed out to me right now.

"Peeta is smart. He's not going to do anything stupid," he assures me. "If you need to worry about anyone's influence right now, you might think about Odair. He's much worse of an influence than I am."

"Oh, god. Finnick," I groan. I can only imagine what Finnick will convince Peeta to do. I glance over at Gale, something new to worry over filling my stomach, when I catch him in a seldom seen grin. It's nice to see on Gale. I can't help but smile back.

"I never thought we'd get here, Catnip." His words encompass so much. I scoot over so I can lean my head on his shoulder. I hug his arm. On a personal level, we're friends again, we're family again. Gale is a part of my life after I believed he couldn't be as long as Peeta is in my life. On a greater scale, we're coming to the end of the war. Freedom is so close we can feel it. Just a little more time, one more mission, and we'll have it. All of Gale's dreams will come true.

It isn't until now, after learning of Gale's interest in Madge and thinking that he might be happy for me, that I feel like I can share my news with him. I lift my head up and tuck my hair behind my ears. Feeling jittery, I take his hand. I wish this could be as easy as showing him a wedding band.

"Gale, I have something to tell you. I—"

"We've got a call coming in from Three," a scratchy voice says above my head. Garrett is speaking through an intercom. "We've got clearance." Gale leans into me, but not to get closer. He pushes a button behind my head and speaks a little louder.

"Ten-four. We'll prepare for departure." Gale lets out a nervous breath. I do the same. Distractions are over with. This is where the mission begins.


	8. Ache

A/N: Lots of buzz happening about the Countdown to Mockingjay fanfic contest. Now let's see some entries! Two more weeks until voting opens, unless we decide to push the date back, but only if someone informs me they _need_ the date pushed back. Check out the linkage if you haven't already:

http:/sites(dot)google(dot)com/site/countdowntomockingjay/

Many thank you's to the lovelies Rae_Cullen, silver_sniper, thurtysomething, & goldenhair2 for spreading the word about this story on their twitter machines, since about ten people follow me, and my tweeting is rather ineffective ;) Join those ten people and follow me on the twitty: KenoshaChick10

Thank you to Medea Smyke for pre-reading and just being amazing in general.

This chapter is rated M for adult language and mention of suicide. Misery loves company and cussing.

**Ache**

My body is one continuous pulsing ache. My latest therapy session was beyond pathetic. I walked maybe a mile at most, aggravating my shin splint and making my hips sore. Forget walking with the crutches. I'm stuck in the chair indefinitely, my arms feeling heavier with each push down the long hallway. Shell says it's not uncommon to regress now and again, especially when under a lot of stress. But it's not that. The stress is what keeps me going to the workouts. I want to get better and be strong for Katniss. I'm just so tired all the time. Shell keeps yelling at me to get a better night's sleep. She thinks I stay up all night pacing—or more accurately, rolling—back and forth with worry. What she doesn't know is that I have been sleeping at night, anxious as I may be. I fall asleep the minute my head hits the pillow. And I still oversleep and I still feel like shit when I wake up. I don't tell her because what solution could there possibly be? Sleep more? Cut out therapy entirely? I couldn't stand that. Either the boredom or the nightmares will kill me.

When I reach the dining hall the workers give me a hard time about coming in outside the designated hours for lunch. I'm eating late because I slept in and started my workout behind schedule. They complain, but they still hand me a plate of food. Leftovers. I get a sad looking sandwich a few apple slices that have already turned brown. Even if I had an appetite, I doubt I would want to eat this. I pull my wheelchair to the end of a table, feeling very much like the miserable plate of food between my elbows.

The room is empty aside from a few workers who are sweeping up after the rush. I'm glad I missed the crowd at lunchtime. People would offer me their encouragement and hopes for success, and I don't think I could take that with much enthusiasm. No energy for it. Actually, I feel like going back to bed. However, the threat of burning alive in my nightmares forces me to hold off.

They came back. The nightmares. Only took three nights for my brain to realize it was defenseless again. I wake multiple times during the night in a cold sweat, only to have the exhaustion pull me back under again and again. When I finally come around in the morning I'm unable to decipher one dream from another. The images blend together. There's a flash of Katniss trapped behind glass like she was in the Quell. There's an uncomfortable feeling of my skin being peeled away from my bones layer by layer. I see her being starved to death on a big screen while people cheer. The applause in my head is deafening. The strangest one is an intense bright light with no discernable source. It's always accompanied with a sensation in my arm that starts out like a soft prickling then develops into a harsh burn that slowly spreads from limb to limb, to the tips of my fingers. I should stop trying so hard to remember.

I blame the fatigue for not hearing Finnick as he walks up behind me. He plops down in a chair next to me and I flinch. After I recover from the momentary rush of adrenaline, I take in his current state. He may be a guy known for his good looks, but you'd never know it by looking at him now. His usual light green eyes are bloodshot from not sleeping for days. He should take some of my hours of sleep. I've got plenty to go around. His hair hangs in strings over his forehead from a lack of showering. He's definitely stopped caring about his appearance. What would our prep teams think of us now?

"Hey," Finnick says. He scoots forward in his seat. The chair makes a nasty scraping sound against the floor that makes me cringe.

"Hey," I murmur back.

He wipes his hand over the dry skin on his cheeks. "You look like hell," he observes.

"Thanks," I mumble with notable sarcasm. I did say I didn't want to spend my time with well wishers after all. "And how are you?"

"Same," he shrugs. He tugs at the hair hanging in his eyes. It looks like it's annoying him and he eventually pushes it all back with a few rapid strokes of his fingers. It sticks up in a dozen different directions. Yup. Definitely stopped caring. "Are you going to eat that?" He gestures to my wilted lunch.

I slide the tray toward him. My stomach feels empty, but not hungry. Strange. "Take it."

Finnick takes a large bite of the sandwich and chews with his mouth open. What do girls see in this guy? He's just as disgusting as the rest of us. If not for missing Annie, he might actually enjoy himself here. He doesn't have to perform for the Capitol anymore than Katniss or I do. He can just be himself. And apparently, camera free Finnick has the manners of a child. Typical guy.

I see Finnick from time to time in the meeting rooms. He's usually hovering around Haymitch and Plutarch. He doesn't visit me in the medical wing. It's anyone's guess as to why. To be honest, I haven't had much reason to care. I was too preoccupied with Katniss. That in itself might be the reason he doesn't visit. Why would he want that rubbed in his face?

"They made it to Three," he says idly between bites.

I drop my elbows from the table and grip the wheels of my chair, ready to move…wherever. Why did he waste any time in telling me? "When?" I gasp out.

"Last night. They landed outside the district, trekked a few miles in, and were ushered within the fence by a few trustworthy Peacekeepers. No issues," he says calmly. I don't know how he stays so calm. I feel ready to jump out of my chair, theoretically.

_ Thank God._ She is through one of the most difficult parts of the mission. She is safe. Every part of the mission is going to be dangerous, but getting into Three was an intricate task. The Capitol had drawn back much of its defenses to Districts Three, Two, and One, the districts surrounding the Capitol, in order to keep the war from coming to its doorstep. If they had been seen by a Peacekeeper who wasn't on our side, they would have been shot on sight.

"How do you know?" I ask anxiously. I grip the wheels of my chair a little tighter. Part of me wants to hear this from Haymitch himself. Haymitch has been, and still is, the keeper of secrets around here. When I hear something from him, I can be sure it's true.

"Because we haven't heard anything," he says, setting the half-eaten sandwich down and dusting the crumbs off his hands.

"Huh?"

"No news is good news," Finnick explains. He picks up one of the brown apples. It turns to mush in his mouth and he makes a face. He pushes the tray away, dissatisfied. "And capturing the Mockingjay would be big news. They wouldn't keep that quiet."

I feel utterly deflated, a bit angry, and a little like I want to sock Finnick in the jaw. Mess up his pretty face a little more than it is right now. Why screw with my head like that? I shouldn't have assumed Finnick had concrete information. Communication with the other districts is difficult enough as it is. We can't risk blowing their cover, so we're stuck waiting it out. I want some reassurance so badly I jumped at the first mention of it. "Finnick, go bother someone else," I mutter.

"I can't."

"Why?"

"Because Haymitch says he doesn't want to talk to me anymore."

_Go figure. _"What makes you think _I _want to talk to you?"

He smirks. He takes it like a joke. _Whatever._ I'm too tired to care. And I could probably use his company. The company of normal Finnick perhaps. Finnick used to be good for a laugh, but if his appearance is any indication he's not himself. It's obvious he hasn't been handling the stress well. We're in the same boat, waiting for our girls to come home.

Finnick slouches back into his chair. His fingers tap softy against the table. "How are we supposed to deal with this?" he asks.

I shake my head. _You're asking me?_ "We already discussed this. I look like hell, remember?"

He smirks again. Who knew I could be such a crack-up? "It would be better if I were there. This waiting is insanity."

"Why didn't you convince Haymitch to let you go?"

He leans forward quickly. His hand goes to his scalp and he tugs at his hair again. "I tried! He kept telling me I couldn't be left with the option of betraying the rebellion. As if I would," he says gruffly. "I've been part of this thing for over ten years and suddenly I'm no longer trustworthy." I believe him. I have every reason to. He looked out for me in the Quell. He rescued me from the Capitol. He saved my life more than once. "I told him I am better suited for this than Hawthorne and Undersee."

Something about his idle comment hits me like a kick to the stomach. I've been kicked in the stomach. I know how it feels. "Did you tell him you were better than Katniss?" I ask without thinking.

"What?" he asks, sounding distracted.

I shake my head again. Why didn't he demand to take Katniss' place and let her sit out? Unless he thought she owed it to him? The idea doesn't sit well with me. I can't see Finnick feeling that way. "Nothing," I finally say, my momentary anger leaving me. Like he said, he'd rather be there than be forced to sit and wait. But it makes me wonder. Was it really so important that Katniss go? Finnick is in good shape, he knows the Capitol, and most importantly, he _is_ trustworthy. He never tried to scratch Haymitch's eyes out or anything.

I take a moment to absorb what Finnick said about the mission. It's is going to plan. There is no reason to assume it is not. Katniss made it into Three without incident. The next step is making it into the Capitol. The end is within our grasp. Districts are under our control. Capitol Peacekeepers are being driven out. But as long as the Capitol has a pulse, the country known as Panem is still alive. We could try and wait it out, hope for Snow's surrender, but that isn't an option. Too many districts are starving. All districts remain under the threat of fire bombings. It is everyone's belief that the Capitol is trying to wait _us_ out, hoping we will crumble under our own struggle before the Capitol does. If the Capitol can hold on longer than we can, it will win. Snow will win. And he won't have to destroy half the country in order to do so. The head has to be cut off. It's what Katniss was sent there to do. It's what she will do.

Serious as it is, at the same time, it seems crazy to expect this of Katniss, or Madge, or Gale for that matter. We're barely legal; which makes Finnick all the more impressive. He took this on when he was only fourteen? I can't see much of that fourteen year old kid in Finnick anymore. The past seven months have aged him aggressively. Bruises under his eyes. His muscles thinned out. Worry lines cut across his former perfection. I have to wonder why he chose to come see me now. I can't offer him any advice about coping and I don't know anything he doesn't know.

He picks at his broken fingernails. His hair falls into his eyes again. I see a reflection of myself. He just needs someone to talk to. Time to suck it up and be friendly. "So, you were, what, fourteen when you joined the rebellion?" I ask, changing the subject.

Finnick sits up a little straighter and takes a second to sort out his answer. Conversing usually comes easily for him, but he can't help hesitating because this story is one he's never told before. "Sort of. The powers that be saw an opportunity in me. I was young, so I was impressionable. I had no family, so the other victors became my family." His eyes drift off. He must be reminiscing about Annie, maybe Mags. I try to imagine a younger Mags and a younger Haymitch conversing about how they might use the new victor, Finnick Odair, to fit the means of their plot for rebellion. But all I can see is an incoherent Mags snacking wildly on a bowl of nuts while an equally incoherent and drunken Haymitch is passed out at the banquet table. Seems more likely. Sometimes, I am really amazed this whole thing is happening at all, considering who orchestrated it. "I didn't know quite what I was involved in at first, but I knew it was secret and I knew it was dangerous."

"That didn't bother you?"

"Did it bother you to get involved?"

"I didn't have a choice. I got thrown in blind."

The conversation stops. It's possible Finnick was manipulated into joining the rebellion as a kid. Recognizing how young and likable he was, they targeted him right when he moved into Victor's Village, and drew him into their secret insurgence, more or less without his permission. But it was different for Katniss and me. We truly didn't know what the plan was for the Quell. We didn't even know there was a plan. We just wanted to survive. I wanted Katniss to survive. By the way we behaved no one would have guessed that. We took a lot of unnecessary risks—several that worked for the benefit of the rebellion unbeknownst to us. However, it would have been better to have known the truth. Finnick is learning that now. Ignorance is undeniably _not _bliss. Even when someone is trying to protect you. I don't want Finnick to think I'm bitter though.

"But had anyone asked me, I would have agreed," I add.

He flashes a brighter smile. Somehow, his teeth are still white. He regains some of that well-known charm. Finnick is charming if nothing else. "You're exactly what the rebellion would have needed, too. A baker," he says lightheartedly. Charming, indeed.

"Hey, I did pretty well in the Games for a baker," I say in defense.

He holds a hand up to slow down my arguing. "I wasn't trying to give you a hard time," he clarifies. "There are revolutionaries much lower on the totem pole than a baker."

"Really?"

"Definitely. Try factory workers, fisherman, farmers, servants, stylists."

"Portia and Cinna."

"Yeah." No stylist would take that kind of risk without a noble cause. There's a moment of silence that falls over us. A brief remembrance of their deaths. Just two on a long list of people who need to be remembered. It passes, and we move on.

"But they were more like you or me or the other victors. What they accomplished was brave, but we're distractions more than anything else." He foolishly bites into another slice of apple. He tosses it back on the tray when he realizes it's just as bad as the first one he ate.

"Distractions?" I question.

"Take me, for example. I spent years boozing up empty-headed, middle-aged Capitol debutants, trying to loosen their lips about their husbands' secrets." He shudders in disgust. "And once in a while, something interesting would come out of it." For once, I'm glad I had the star-crossed lover angle to fall back on. Women couldn't have me because I was already taken. Thinking about seducing some of those grotesque Capitol freaks who barely look human makes my stomach turn. Finnick is a stronger man than I am. He collects himself and continues, "But not enough to keep doing it for as long as I did. It pleased the people of the Capitol and kept them entertained. All the while, the person pouring their tea every morning is sending us coded messages about the security patterns of Capitol Peacekeepers."

_The person pouring their tea?_ Oh.

"Avox," I say. The word hovers in the air. Finnick doesn't even nod to indicate that I'm right. The Avoxes are one of the more startling things I encountered in the Capitol. Criminals with their tongues cut out and forced into slavery. What was done to them made me uncomfortable enough, but something about the redheaded girl made me feel very uneasy. There was something going on behind her eyes that I couldn't place. What was even stranger was how some people, like my prep team or even Effie, regarded her as a piece of the furniture, just part of the scenery, only giving her attention when something needed to be cleaned up. And maybe she or Darius or one of the many other Avoxes are like furniture in a way. Everyone trusts their furniture not to tell their secrets. At the same time, Finnick made a spectacle of himself, distracting everyone from the more dangerous radicals. "The Avoxes are making this thing happen," I conclude.

"They're our best resources and they're very willing to help." Finnick smiles again, taking pleasure in this victory. Does the Capitol not realize their own slaves are betraying them? The idea seems far-fetched. But so does the idea of your own scientists building an underground dwelling used to house thousands of people who are all plotting to overthrow you. Apparently, the Capitol does not learn from its own mistakes. They haven't even realized they've made one. Once again, it created its own demise.

"You and me?" Finnick continues. "It's not the same. We have our place, we rally the masses and maybe give people something to connect to since they have no way of connecting to other districts, but I'm just sitting here. I'm not out there risking my life." It's odd. We're too valuable to risk, yet if we don't take any risk, do we add any value? That's how Finnick sees it and I can't disagree. If I could be out there, I would. If I weren't stuck in this chair, I'd be beside Katniss right now. She and the others are doing the real hero work along with the factory workers, Peacekeepers, and farmers who have been on our side the whole time.

Finnick picks at his fingernails again, looking depressed. He's actually put me in a better mood. I feel good getting to talk about this stuff with someone. Katniss is always too concerned about stressing me out. Plus, we tend to focus on one another when we're together. It's different with Gale and Finnick. Easier, somehow. I need to return the favor. Oddly, I do this by hitting him in the shoulder. "So you _didn't_ sleep with half the Capitol?"

He cracks another smile. "The rumors are as real as your marriage and your baby."

I grin like an idiot and hope he doesn't get it. "Hm. You played it off so convincingly though," I say, disbelieving. I pretend to be skeptical of his honor in the hopes of getting a rise out of him. He hunches over the table and narrows his eyes at me. I guess I crossed a line.

"It only takes one story from one lady who wants to say she slept with a victor." He holds up his pointer finger in emphasis. "And when I would move on to the next one, even if nothing happened, she wouldn't want anyone to think she wasn't just as desirable. She'd make the same claim as the one before. I just never disagreed with any of them."

I snicker to myself. I roll my eyes. _Poor Finnick._ His good looks have been such a curse. A curse, but like he said, an opportunity. Something the "powers that be" had no choice but to take advantage of, right? "Were we an opportunity? Katniss and me?"

"They saw something in Katniss." He scratches the back of his head. "You know, I think she would have won even if you weren't there. But then I wouldn't be here eating your lunch, so where would we be?" He laughs, but there's no life in it. If not for Katniss and me the rebellion wouldn't be where it is now. They took advantage of how hard they knew we would fight for each other in the Quell. They knew it would distract everyone from the much bigger plot of breaking us out of the arena. If not for us, nothing would have progressed. Haymitch would still be drowning in liquor in his dirty house in Twelve. Madge would be finishing up school and begin working for her father in his office. Gale would be working the mines day in and day out. And Annie Cresta would be sitting on a fishing boat with Finnick Odair.

It's a complex balancing act of emotions that I understand too well. Of course Finnick wants the rebellion to succeed. He wants peace. He wants us to live with freedom from oppression. Yet anything that threatens the love of his life he will always resent, just a little.

"They're going to get Annie back," I say suddenly. It doesn't matter what the odds are. It's what he needs to hear. "Katniss won't leave her. You guys got me back, didn't you?"

"We did," he says flatly. He refuses to look up at me.

I don't know what to make of his reaction. Maybe my placating just doesn't cut it. "That's what you're worried about, isn't it?"

He folds his hands over the table like he's silently praying. "Do you think what they did to you, they're doing to her?" he whispers.

I'm surprisingly steady as I answer. My voice doesn't even waver. "I can't say. I don't remember what they did to me."

Finnick eyes flicker up to mine. His shoulders tense. He gets that look people get when they realize they've said something incredibly stupid. "Oh. Right." He leans back in his seat and manages to appear even more uncomfortable. "Well, I should—"

"Katniss won't tell me," I interrupt. He starts tapping nervously on the table, looking ready to bolt. Where's he going to run? We're underground. I'll find him eventually. "Neither will Gale or Haymitch. They know. _You_ know."

"What does it matter? You're here now."

On the three occasions I brought up this topic I was met with little success. Once with Katniss; she refused to say anything, and when she started kissing me I forgot what I was asking about. Once with Gale; he mentioned something about mass quantities of drugs but said nothing else. And once with Haymitch; he ignored me and told me I was damn lucky I didn't remember anything. He's right. Maybe it's crazy for me to ask about this stuff. Finnick's the one who brought it up in the first place. He's the crazy one. "You're obviously scared as shit about what they might be doing to Annie," I accuse. His eyes give him away. "What happened? I'm tired of having holes in my memories."

"Katniss will kill me if I tell you."

"Katniss isn't here," I say harshly.

Finnick takes a few seconds to think. I have to admit this is the most success I've had in getting an explanation about my capture so far. He takes a deep breath. I brace myself for the answer, wondering for a split second if I really want to know. But I'm determined. I've been through hell twice. I can handle a little story.

"What do you remember?" he hedges.

I'm disappointed at first. I don't want to argue for answers anymore. And besides, there's so little that I do remember. Sifting through the memories is very much like recalling my dreams. There are images, there are sounds, but they don't connect to one another. I don't even know if they're real. My only choice is to begin at my last concrete memory. As anyone would expect, it's tied to Katniss. "The Quell I remember. It was after we split up. You were looking for Johanna and Katniss." Finnick nods, agreeing with the facts. "I heard Katniss scream my name. I was trying to get to her. But then a canon fired. I called out for her and she didn't…she didn't answer," I stutter. My chest tightens as I remember the moment. The very first moment that I thought I lost her. It hurts the same way it did then. I grab at the collar of my shirt to loosen it, but it doesn't ease the tension. I swallow the lump in my throat. "Then the sky turned into fire. I think I was knocked out."

"Then what?" Finnick asks without missing a beat. He doesn't even let me recoup from my story. This part is where things get fuzzy. I try to visualize the images and put them in a sensible composition.

"It was white, I think. But it was dark most of the time. I was in a bed—a hospital bed," I deduce. I've been in a hospital bed for weeks, months if you include the Capitol. It's easy to put myself back into the visual, but the memories still don't tell me what was said to me, what was asked of me. _What did I ask?_ I think to myself. _What did I think was happening?_ "I was surprised to find myself there," I say suddenly. And then it does come back. The feeling of surprise I felt when I woke up there. I was alive. For a moment I thought I won, which scared the hell out of me. The tightness in my chest returns. It was the second moment I thought I lost her. Reliving that feeling is accompanied by a flash of something new. It's still blurry, but it's there, floating somewhere between my subconscious and conscious mind. "No windows, but there was large mirror on the opposite wall." I hold my hand out as if I could touch the memory. I'm hit with a rush of déjà vu. I can see my own hand, now with a needle inserted in the back of it, reaching out toward that mirror.

"Did you ever see Johanna?" Finnick cuts in. The mirror and the memory get lost in the haze again. I'm grateful. I release the death grip I have on my own shirt.

"Once, I think. Maybe I only heard her voice," I muse. I definitely can't find her face in my mind. There is an echo of her voice though. I can't say for sure if it's from our time in the Capitol or if it's just some residual mutterings from the Games. Whatever it is, it sounds the same as every other encounter I had with Johanna, brash and recklessly brave. "For some reason, I got the feeling she wasn't afraid, which is more than I can say for myself."

"That doesn't surprise me," Finnick says, gaining a small smile. It falters quickly. "She was…gone…not more than two days after we broke out. I hope she wasn't afraid. She didn't deserve that." No one is a hundred percent sure how she did it—whether she had pills on her person when she went into the Games or if she messed with her meds while she was captured. But there's no way in hell Snow would have killed her with all the information she had. Johanna knew that. She was the furthest thing from ignorant.

"Was it always the intention that she and I would be on the hovercraft with you and Katniss?" I ask, knowing the answer full well. There's a point I need to make.

"That was the intention."

"So, the plan went wrong?"

Now he's the one comforting me, but he doesn't do a very good job. His voice shakes. His confidence sounds forced. "Katniss is going to be okay. They've got a good plan. And plans do go right. You're proof of that." He pats my shoulder stiffly.

I take a sharp breath because something is suddenly in the front of my mind again. A hand on my shoulder, but it's not comforting. It's forceful. It's holding my down. I see Finnick pull his hand back but I still feel the force of the one seizing me. It's so real. My chest constricts once again. I think my breathing picks up. I cover my face with my hands, hoping I will find some safety if I close my eyes.

_The canon. Was the canon for her?_

Finnick keeps talking. "They wanted to know if you had information. They gave you sedatives to make you spill your guts. They must have realized early on that you didn't know anything. You probably prattled on about your undying love for Katniss the whole time." He chuckles warmly.

I hear someone laughing next to me, but it's not friendly. It's mocking me, taking pleasure in seeing me whimper like a small child against the pain. The pain. It's in my arm and I can feel it now as if it's really happening. It_ is_ happening. It's burning through my skin, hollowing me out from the inside. I clench my scalp. I think I'm sweating.

_Where is she? Tell me she's alive._

"They tried other stuff. Drugs that caused a burning sensation or paralyzed you or made you lose your eyesight. But Snow didn't want you dead. So they put you in a coma so you couldn't escape. That's probably why you don't remember anything."

_Escape? _No. There is no escaping it. The darkness. Darkness when I am awake, darkness when I am asleep. I don't know what is real and is a nightmare anymore. There are people but they don't speak to me. And when I open my mouth they silence it. Have I lost my voice or I am too frightened to speak? Am I an Avox?

_Tell her I love her. _

Somewhere, a thousand miles away, someone is shouting my name. Asking if I'm okay. Telling someone else to give me air. It sounds watery and muffled. Am I drowning? If I'm drowning I need air. No. I'm out of breath because I'm running. Through the jungle. I'm running toward her voice. And when I find her, she'll smile.


	9. Quarantine

A/N: Hello! I have new HG story out titled _My First Date with Katniss Everdeen_. It was supposed to be a one-shot, but like most of my one-shots, it decided it wanted to be a multi-chapter fic. It's of lighter fare than _Scars_, so check it out if you want a break from the angst.

Voting will open July 13th on the Countdown to Mockingjay contest. Check out the site to read some great stories and vote for your favorite. http:/sites(dot)google(dot)com/site/countdowntomockingjay/

Many thank you's to the lovely Medea Smyke for pre-reading.

**Quarantine**

It may have been dark, but oh, could I _see_. The stars are always the same. No matter where you are in Panem, the stars don't change. Neither does the moon for that matter. Between the stars and moon we are provided ample light for walking through the forest that surrounds District 3. I glance over at Gale a few times. He and I are in our element. He is just as invigorated with the smell of the air and the earth as I am. He only grimaces occasionally at Wing when he uses a flashlight to light his path. Gale warns him we might reveal our position. Wing just sloughs him off, cursing every time he trips. It's not only the flashlight that might give us away. This forest is rather thinned out and doesn't provide much cover. If the Capitol could find the redheaded Avox girl and her friend amongst the thickness of the forest around Twelve, they could certainly find us. The only thing that puts my mind at ease is that the Capitol is not using their resources to scan the woods as of late. They are concentrating on keeping hold of the districts they have control over still. That means keeping things orderly within the district is their priority. Besides, some vagabonds wandering in the woods are not going to take the district by force. Still, I can't ignore the sinking feeling in my stomach that gets heavier and heavier which each step toward Three. I don't think that feeling is going to go away until I'm home again.

We rest after a couple hours of walking. Gale and I are good to go but Wing whines about being thirsty. Madge sits on the ground and takes her gun out of its holster. She looks over the barrel. She checks it once more before she puts it away. Without her deck of cards she has to do something to calm any nerves. I have a gun. I learned how to fire it effectively. However, I never liked the feel of it. I still don't. It's light on my hip. It's more reliable than my bow. It's cold though, and it reminds me that it's there to kill people. My bow is for survival. The gun is for war.

"Need a drink, old timer?" Wing asks Garrett as he shoves a water bottle his way. Garrett sits down with Wing and takes a drink. Garrett is very quiet, almost never talks. He's much older than the rest of us, closer to Haymitch's age. I think he came out of the Capitol, but I don't know for sure. It's because he's always clean shaven and wears a fancy bomber jacket that I think this. He doesn't socialize much. He usually sticks to working with the engines or piloting the hovercraft. As far as I can tell he's a nice man. He offers me the water bottle. I'm not very thirsty but I take a drink anyway.

"We need to get moving," Gale says in a rush.

"Calm down, Wild Man. We can take a five minute break," Wing says.

"There's only so many hours of darkness and the minute the sun comes up we'll be sitting ducks. Not to mention they could be discovering the hovercraft we ditched as we speak."

"Gale, do you see any hovercrafts flying around?" He waves his bulky arms around in the air. Gale doesn't look up, but I do. Nothing but stars. I didn't realize how much I missed them. "The Capitol isn't looking for people wandering the woods. We're golden." He shines the flashlight in Gale's face, forcing Gale to shield his eyes. Gale opens his mouth, to make some kind of nasty remark I'm certain, but Madge grabs the flashlight out of Wing's hand and interrupts.

"We have to be cautious. And we do have to get moving." Madge's voice is soft, but authoritative. Wing groans as he gets up from his spot on the ground. You'd think after being cooped up in Thirteen and then the hovercraft he'd enjoy a hike. I forget most people are uncomfortable in the woods.

"Wait," I say as everyone stands. Each member of the team tenses as they look at me expectantly. I can tell they're listening for something, as if I heard a hovercraft the rest of them couldn't. "There's something I want to say before we get to Three." I pause, feeling more formal than I would like. I just have to get this out before anything more significant happens. "I know I haven't been a part of the rebellion the way I should have. After the Quell, I…I lost my way," I stammer. I don't want to go into more detail that that. "I don't know what Haymitch has said to you, but you all need to know that I'm a part of this. I'd never forgive myself if I didn't put all of myself into this mission." I nod affirmatively. I don't know what to expect from my little speech. Gale already knew of my attitude, so he doesn't say or do anything. Madge kicks some dirt around and Garrett looks a little bored. Wing shrugs his giant shoulders and throws the bag containing the water bottles at me. I waver with the weight of it.

"Have it your way, Little Bird," he says. He brushes past me and into the darkness, following a navigational tool on his wrist.

"Okay," I say absently. If I was being protected like I thought, it didn't take much to convince them to forget about it. Gale is at my side, takes the bag Wing threw at me, and slings it over his own shoulder. I'd argue that I could carry it, but I know he won't give it back.

"I really hate that guy," he mutters.

I roll my eyes. "No you don't." No one could ever _really_ hate Wing. I take off toward the rest of the group.

We walk for miles. We don't take anymore breaks, though we do pass the water around. Eventually, everyone gets a footing in the woods. Even Wing doesn't trip as often. The darkness remains tricky. We know we're getting closer to our destination, but the dark is endless. I don't mind it, really. There were days in 12 when I would walk far into the woods to the point where if I walked any further I wouldn't be back home before sunset. I'd always turn around before it got too late, but before I disembarked, I'd stand there and contemplate what was beyond the length of my hike. I'd seen some of it on the tour, but only the slices of the country the Capitol controlled. Other than the tiny world of 13, I still didn't know what the life was like without the Capitol's sharp grip on it.

Suddenly, Wing stops. He was automatically the leader of the hike because he's carrying the navigational tool. My body buzzes with nerves. "We're almost there," he murmurs lowly.

We walk in a tighter pack after that. No one talks. Wing doesn't crack jokes. We all grow more and more anxious to get to the next step. As we walk, something finally breaks up the surrounding darkness. There is a hazy light on the horizon. It looks like a sunrise, but lacks the oranges, pinks, and reds that accompany the rising sun. The moon is as bright as ever, so I know the strange light is not yet dawn. In fact, it's nothing natural at all. The light is coming from District Three. I don't remember much of Three from the victory tour. So much of that trip is a blur at this point. I've never stood on the outside of any district other than my own. I see no hovercrafts, but I feel the eyes of the Capitol on me.

We walk close together, but no longer follow behind Wing as our destination lay in front of us. The light becomes brighter and harsher as we approach. The artificiality is not comforting. How can anyone sleep at night with so much light? The woods become thinner and thinner until finally, there are no trees at all, and we're standing in an open field. It's unsettling having nothing to hide behind, but we trudge forward because this is a part of the plan. We have to trust the plan Haymitch sent us on.

A few hundred yards out the residual light from the district gives us a clearer picture of the exterior. District Three isn't surrounded by a fence like Twelve was; it's surrounded by a massive wall at least twenty feet high with wires along the top edge that scream with electricity. How did I miss it when I was here last? And more importantly, how will we possibly get past it? There isn't a tree to climb or a way to scale the wall. Not that I would even attempt to try. I'm afraid to touch anything in this district, afraid it will zap me if I get too close.

Sensing my hesitation, I feel Madge's hand on my elbow. "Come on. We have a ride to catch." And once again, I feel like I'm being protected. I'm beginning to think insisting Madge to act any other way is futile.

The wall is even more foreboding up close. I'm further convinced we'll never be able to get over it, nor do I see a single door or opening to do through it. Everyone is standing along the wall staring up toward the top. If I felt exposed standing in a field a hundred yards away, I feel utterly bare standing only a few feet from the electrified wall. No one offers a solution, so I finally ask, "What now?"

"This is the spot," Wing says while checking over his wrist again. "She should be here soon."

As if on cue, a panel in the wall pulls back with a loud groan and slowly slides away. Bright yellow light slices over the brown grass from the opening. A short figure in a Peacekeeper's uniform steps out, obviously a woman even though her hair is pushed up under a helmet. Her gun isn't drawn, but I feel a rush of panic anyway. Out of the corner of my eye I see Madge reach for her holster. At the same moment the Peacekeeper's eyes dart in our direction.

"Holy hell!" she shouts. She still doesn't draw her weapon. She narrows her eyes at us and puts a hand on her hip. "Do you know how many times I've been out here tonight?" She reminds me of Peeta's mother, red-faced and annoyed.

No one answers. Madge drops her hand from her gun. I'm guessing this is the person with whom we're supposed to rendezvous? She doesn't seem happy to see us.

"Let's get moving. We don't have much time." She gestures us through the opening. I never would have known it was there if the wall hadn't moved aside. We rush in. The Peacekeeper rolls the sliding door closed with a great deal of effort. She huffs when it finally snaps shut. "Follow," she orders. No one says anything different.

The door leads us into what I assume is the interior of the barricade surrounding the district. The floors are cracked and drastically uneven. Wing trips yet again. He doesn't seem to be very coordinated on his feet. Then again, it is dark in here. Given how bright the light radiating from the city appeared from outside, the inside of the barricade is quite murky. About every thirty feet or so a fluorescent light hangs from the tall ceiling; however, they flicker and dim, leaving us in complete darkness now and again.

"You're late," the female Peacekeeper says without turning around.

"Give us a break. We were walking on foot for the last twenty miles," Wing groans. The last time I remember someone saying something disrespectful to a Peacekeeper, I was whipped across the face.

"And if you had come any later you'd have missed your flight," she snaps. Wing hangs his head down. The woman is even shorter than I am, her helmet is too big, but the gruffness of her voice is intimidating. "Idiots. You men in Thirteen are all idiots."

"Where are we headed?" Madge questions politely. The woman glances over her shoulder. Anyone would soften at the sight of Madge's kind face, that is, until she shoots you.

"I'm taking you to the hanger. These halls connect to several major locations in the district. The hanger, the Justice Building, some of the factories." The walls of these "halls" are constructed of concrete bricks that are painted white, though much of the paint is chipping away and crunches beneath our feet as we march. It doesn't match the pristine condition the walls appeared to have on the outside.

"Does the Capitol know these halls are here?" I ask.

"Yeah. But most everyone steers clear of them."

"Why?" Just then, a chunk of concrete zings past my shoulder from above. It smashes into two pieces next to my foot. The Peacekeeper taps her helmet twice and offers a look as if to say, "That's why." I vaguely recognize her face, but I don't recall her name. The others must remember better than me or they wouldn't be following her without question. For some reason I remember she has five children, one of which is a Peacekeeper like her, but he's not working for the rebellion. I'm not sure if that detail is actually hers or if I've mixed it up with someone else.

"The Capitol has had other priorities these last few decades," she says. She stops at an intersection, glances down both hallways before going forward again. With the coast clear, she explains more about the next leg of the mission. "The hovercraft is carrying mostly cargo and some patients. Very few Peacekeepers will be on board."

"Where are we going to stow away?" Gale asks.

"You'll be in the sick bay."

"The sick bay?" Gale and I look at each other for an explanation we don't have.

"Yes. The patients on board are quarantined."

"Wait. Hold up," Wing stammers. The Peacekeeper keeps on walking despite Wing's request. We're all forced to keep following or be lost inside the crumbling walls. "You're putting us with a bunch of contagious sick people?"

"Dr. Holden will explain more of it to you. It's best if you just follow and don't talk." For the rest of the walk we do as we're told and stop asking questions. It's apparent that not only did I not know the details of the mission, neither does anyone else. It's quite a familiar feeling. I hate Haymitch. Even while on the same side, I still feel like his puppet.

We stop in front of rather inconsequential looking door. "Wait here," the Peacekeeper says before she hustles out the door. It closes behind her and the five of us stand in the eerie silence. The lights continue to flicker. There are large ancient-looking spider webs extending over my head. Madge gasps and brushes her hand over something on her shoulder, presumably a spider. Gale is standing behind her. He touches her shoulder and wipes the frightening insect off. I expect her to scold him, but she doesn't, keeping to the quiet rule that's been put into place. She turns her head and gives him the lightest of smiles. A blush erupts on her cheeks. Yes, Madge carries a gun and is afraid of spiders. My fear of nightmares is rather childlike so I don't think badly of her. Just for a second, and maybe I'm seeing things, but Gale squeezes her shoulder before he lets go. I must not be seeing things because Wing stiffens beside me.

The moment the lights turn off and we're swallowed up in darkness, the door wrenches open with the Peacekeeper woman on the other side. I wish I could remember her name. She motions us through the door and slams it when we're in. We stand what looks to be a rather large repair room for hovercrafts and automobiles. Pieces of engines and tools are scattered over every inch of the place. It smells like oil and gasoline. I miss the outdoors even more. I peek behind me and notice the door we walked through has disappeared. The wall is still there, but there's no indication of a door at all. The wall looks to be completely seamless.

"Each of you put this on." She's hands us a silvery garb that I would equate to a choir robe, except these have hoods. They're also very light, as if they're made of fine paper, but they don't rustle like a paper gown would. Mine is so long it goes past my feet, which I suppose is good because it covers up my boots. It will be hard to walk in. We have to adjust our various bags so we don't look conspicuous, but the robes are so big it's not noticeable. "Shave while you're on board," she orders Gale when she hands him his robe. He rolls his eyes at the woman. I knew beards are no good in the Capitol. "The items will be ready for pick up in the cargo hold. Dr. Holden will arrange it for you."

"But what about—" Wing begins.

"I don't know and I don't care," she interrupts. She pulls something out of a satchel at her side. It's a stack of face masks. She shoves one in each of our hands. "All I know is, it's my job to get you on that ship. And that's all I'm going to do." She doesn't care? I'm eager to know everything I can and she doesn't care? She may be a spy and a traitor, but only as much as she needs to be. She's thinking ahead. Information is precious and dangerous. If she's ever captured, if she's ever tortured, she can't give up information she doesn't know. That's what Haymitch is doing with us. He gives us breadcrumbs to follow, but doesn't show us the map. "So do what I say and don't talk. Don't let anyone see your faces." Wing snorts indignantly as he puts on his mask. I'm glad to see them suffer in ignorance, just a little bit.

The Peacekeeper throws a mask over her own face and takes off again. We follow in tow, looking like an odd line of magicians in our silver robes. We pass a series of different automobiles and wrecked hovercrafts; full of bullet holes or smashed in windows. Evidence of the riots.

We pause behind an automobile with a storage unit in the back and a driving cab in the front. It looks to be in better shape than the other machines. She swings open the doors of the unit on the back. On either side is a set of bunk beds and miscellaneous medical items.

"Get in. You girls share a bed," she says before I can question where the fifth person is going to go. Garrett and Wing climb into the upper beds. The rest of us climb under the covers of the lower ones. I'd say it's like being the hovercraft we took from Thirteen again, but it's really not. My heart was never pounding this hard, even as we took on the turbulence. I tuck myself next to Madge. Her gun lodges in my hip and it's painful. I'd move, but the bed is so small there's nowhere for me to go. The doors slam shut on the unit and a bluish light clicks on inside. I hear the engine of the automobile start up and I wonder if there's anything in here that will settle my stomach, because I do feel a little bit ill. I tug my hood over my face a little more.

We don't drive for very long. The automobile idles and I can hear muffled voices outside. The doors snap open and I cringe against the light and the sudden amount of noise. It sounds like saws and engines and deep voices shouting at one another. I bury myself under the covers as much as I can.

"Who did you say these people are?" a man's voice nearly shouts to be heard above the noise. A gun fires. It sounded like a gun. Maybe it was an engine being repaired.

The female Peacekeepers answers. She sounds absolutely enraged; far more than when she was being snippy with Wing. "I told you! They're headed for the quarantine on the next flight out."

"I thought they were all on board already."

The air is hot and moist under my mask. I try to breathe normally. Madge adjusts her arm so she can take my sweaty hand. I squeeze back.

"I don't know about any of that," the female Peacekeeper says flippantly. "Do you really care? I don't know about you but I don't want to be near them any longer than I have to and risk catching whatever the hell kind of disease they have."

"Fine," the man's voice answers. The doors slam shut again. A few seconds pass, the automobile groans as it changes gears, and we're moving again.

The next time the doors open the noise is gone. The lights are much dimmer. I hear several people scuffling around in the unit, but I don't let them see my face. I won't let anyone see my face until someone tells me to come out from underneath the covers again. Buttons are pushed and my bed moves. A popping sound cracks twice from under my bed and suddenly Madge and I are rolling. I can even tell the floor is rubbery from the sound the wheels make gliding across it. I hear the swift rush of people around me and the whoosh of automatic doors opening and closing. I clench Madge's hand every time the bed hits something and bounces.

And then finally, we stop. Our surroundings are comfortably quiet aside from some gentle murmuring of voices and the beeping of some kind of machinery. The quiet doesn't relax my muscles. Something tugs at the blanket covering my face. I don't let go. Someone softly chuckles.

"You're safe. I promise." It isn't the man from before who was questioning the Peacekeeper. His voice is like melted chocolate, warm and rich. I feel brave enough to open my eyes. The covers come down. The chocolate is there behind his glasses. It's his eyes.

Madge sits up next to me, her eyes just as big as mine. The man has a mask on like the one over my face. He pulls it down and reveals a pleasant smile. "Good to finally meet you," he says.

Before I can say anything, the female Peacekeeper walks up to the man. I'm strangely glad to see her. She just did something very dangerous for us. She pulls down her own mask. There's a deep red line around her mouth where the mask was digging into her face. "I'm off. Good luck to you." She turns to leave. I grab her arm. She stiffens at the gesture.

"What about you?" I ask. My mask becomes askew and falls down my chin a little. I don't want her to stay in this district. It's rough and dangerous and falling apart at the seams. We can take her back to Thirteen and give her refuge.

She gently takes my hand off her arm and places it on the bed. Her voice is loving, like a mother's. "My place is here," she whispers. What I recalled about her five children must have been true. No mother could leave all her children behind. "I'm glad I got to see you, just once. I'll tell everyone I saw you." She exits through a pair of doors that slide open when she hits a few buttons. Quite a difference from the doors she had to push and shove to open in the walls. I really wish I knew her name so when it's all over I can find out if she lived.

It's starting. My status as the symbol of the revolution is already making a difference. Just like Haymitch said it would. I pull the mask away from my face and rub at the indentation. There's no sense in hiding. My identity is known to everyone in the room, evidently.

"So, what's the diagnosis, Doc? Do we all have some incurable disease now?" Wing says from the other side of the room. A doctor? Of course. The man with the warm eyes is a doctor. He's dressed in a long coat with pens in the pocket. We're in a room quite familiar to me. The sick bay, but one far more sophisticated than the one in Thirteen. Everything is white and blue and sterile. There are IV drips and tubes and needles and other patients dressed the same as us. They're all sleeping. I'm reminded it is very late at night.

The doctor laughs at Wing's comment. "Hardly. These are your counterparts. Not patients."

"They're not sick?" Madge asks. I slide my legs off the bed, giving her a little more room.

"They're part of our cause. Over the last couple months they were given inoculations that gave them symptoms similar to an infectious disease. There was talk about the potential of a widespread epidemic within the factories so they were quarantined. I just was able to arrange they be on this flight going into the Capitol a few days ago," the doctor explains. "I'm Dr. Rafe Holden, by the way." He extends his hand to me and then Madge. I'm struck by the face he was hiding behind the mask. He's very handsome, and handsome in terms of what I think is attractive, not what the Capitol would deem as good-looking. They'd say he is dull. His skin is lighter than mine, but he probably doesn't spend much time outdoors. His hair a little gray on the sides, but his face is clear of all wrinkles, making it impossible to figure his age.

"So you're the reason things happened so suddenly," Madge realizes. She's not as taken by the doctor as I am. I wouldn't say I'm interested in him in any way. I have a husband. He's handsome, but he's also peculiar.

"Yes. With a few hours rest and the right medicines, they'll be fine. And you'll be fine." he says.

"Are they going to help us at the hospital?" Wing asks, once again proving that we don't know everything there is to know about the mission. We only know what we have to know.

"No. They're all headed to different places throughout the Capitol to help organize things after the mission is done with." Haymitch has said this is the final pull when it comes to the war. He expects an immediate surrender after the hospital is gone. He's hoping for that anyway.

"That Peacekeeper said something about picking something up in the cargo hold?" Gale asks. His head is much more in the game than mine is at the moment.

"Yes. I can take you down there right after we take off. There should only be one Peacekeeper on this flight. No one wanted to be on the hovercraft with the dangerous disease." He winks at me and I look away. I can't put my finger on why. "But you'll need to get cleaned up and change."

We all climb out of the beds and resituate ourselves. Packs are thrown under the beds. Holsters are readjusted.

"Ladies, you can stay here and rest," the doctor says. Madge and I both raise an eyebrow. I don't like the idea of us being separated. "I'll just take the men down to the hold." He touches the bottom of my chin with his finger. It gives me a very uncomfortable feeling. "There's only one Peacekeeper, but we can't risk you being seen. He won't come in here though. I've got them scared stiff."

I'm still bothered, but I don't object. If only Haymitch would tell us a little bit more about what to expect, we wouldn't have these moments of doubt. The guys follow Dr. Holden into another room, probably a shower. Wing deviates from the group and sneaks beside Madge before he leaves.

"Don't miss me too much," Wing whispers right before he kisses her on the cheek. _Whoa._ Madge laughs and gives shoves him on the shoulder before he walks away, but the blush on her cheeks in unmistakable. She rests against the bed, but I can't sit still so I jump up and start walking around. The floor shakes a little. We must be taking off. Good. I'll be glad to get out of this district. Three is where the Capitol sends much of its repairs. No one in the Capitol knows how to fix that stuff. And from the amount of light coming off the district in the middle of the night, that must mean they're working night and day. And apparently, the focus on rebuilding machinery or weapons has torn all focus away from fixing up the district. Instead of repairing the wall, they wrap it in electricity. It might be a good thing though. It will be that much easier to tear down when it's all over.

The shaking stops. In a bizarre way, I'm glad to be on a Capitol hovercraft again. I don't have to worry about turbulence on this flight.

I look over the other patients. They're still sleeping soundly. Hopefully, they got some sleeping syrup or something. They deserve a peaceful sleep after what they went through to get on this ship. I pace in the other direction and glance at Madge. She's got a look of concentration on her face. She's playing with some metal chain around her neck. She slides a rather large silver ring back and forth on the chain as she thinks.

"Madge? What is that?" I ask.

Her eyes shoot to mine. She was clearly thinking deeply about something. She looks down at her fingers that are still holding onto the ring. "Oh. It's nothing." She tucks the necklace under her collar. She straightens out the blanket covering her legs. That ring is too big for Madge to wear. That must be why she has it on a chain. I've seen that ring before. On Wing.

"So, you and Wing are…what?" I ask tentatively. I realize I haven't told her about Peeta and me, so I have no place asking about her relationships. At the same time, I don't think Madge is hiding a secret as big as mine. I'm just being a concerned friend.

"I'm not sure what we are." Madge shrugs. "I like him."

"I'm sure he likes you, too," I say under my breath. Wing likes just about everyone, except me maybe. And I'm fine with that.

"I know his reputation, Katniss. He's not as bad as everyone thinks. But thank you for looking out for me."

I haven't spent nearly as much time with Wing as Madge, so I decide to trust her judgment. Besides, from what I have seen Wing is very sweet to Madge. He's never rude or mean. "So, what have you two…um…on dates…," I stammer. Madge giggles. "What?"

"Listen to you trying to participate in girl talk." Madge smiles.

I don't know whether to be offended or not. I don't care if I'm good at girl talk. "Just tell me straight if you two are together," I say a little more harshly than is called for.

"Why does it matter?" Madge asks, sounding surprised.

_Because I think you're a perfect match for Gale if you would stop biting each other's heads off._

"Because it affects the people around you. People who care about you." I try to sound concerned because I am. I also try to insinuate that other people might be concerned as well. I wonder what Gale would say if he knew Wing had given her a ring. He was bothered just by the fact that they were so comfortable with one another, let alone sharing tokens of commitment.

Madge takes a few seconds to absorb my comment. Does she get what "people" I'm referring to? "We're not a couple," she says simply. "We like to spend time together. He asked me if I wanted to make it more serious, but I don't know if I want to."

"Why not? You just said you like him."

"For one, I thought it was inappropriate to ask something like that while in the midst of a mission," she says, relieving some resentment she must have been keeping in for a day or so. It's some of the fire that Madge didn't have until she came to Thirteen. I thought she only saved that attitude for Gale. "Wing is sweet and fun. He makes me laugh. I just think that's all there will ever be between us."

I sit at the end of the bed. Maybe I'm wrong. Madge and Gale obviously have issues with one another. I think about how good Peeta makes me feel. How easily he can make me smile. I wouldn't give up that feeling for anything. "Well, it's good to have someone who makes you smile, especially now." If Madge wants to avoid the drama she has with Gale, so be it. However, she is hesitating to make her relationship with Wing serious. "Why did you take his ring?"

"He wouldn't let me give it back." She groans and laughs. She tugs the necklace out again. She stares at it. "He said he wanted to keep me thinking about him. Cute, right?"

"Yes. Cute." I nod. And a tiny part of me wishes I had one too. My hand dips into my pocket. My letter is still there.

Garrett is the first to step out of the shower room. He doesn't look much different, but he always looks nice anyway. His hair is wet and he's got on some kind of uniform. Not a Peacekeeper uniform nor a doctor, more like a flight deck attendant. I'd think he was one of the crew. On a big hovercraft like this I imagine it's easy to forget a face. Wing steps out next with Dr. Holden. His shirt is a little too tight. The fabric is stretched thin around the muscles in his arms. He and Dr. Holden are chatting quietly about something. Nevertheless, he notices Madge's necklace and winks at her. She quickly puts the necklace back under her shirt. Gale comes out last, rubbing his now bare chin.

"Gale!" I gush before I can stop myself. It's been so long since I've seen him without scruff. Maybe since he was old enough to grow a beard. He looks different from what I remember. He is twenty now. A grown man. I've never seen him in brand new clothes and shiny boots either.

"Don't start, Catnip," he moans.

"Doesn't he look handsome?" Wing elbows Gale in the chest. "I won't be able to call him Wild Man anymore," he teases.

I decide to save Gale and change the subject. "What are you getting from the cargo hold?"

"We needed some technicians in Three to make the remaining pieces of the weapon we're taking to the Capitol. Garrett's going to finish putting it together when we get there," Wing explains. Garrett confirms this with a nod. I didn't know Garret's expertise lied in building bombs as well as engines.

"We won't be long. Feel free to use the showers and rest. We'll be at the Capitol tomorrow afternoon," Dr. Holden says softly. He leads the three of them out the locked door and to parts unknown. I can't leave because my face is too recognizable. How am I always finding myself trapped in hospitals?

I face Madge again, intent on asking her if she wants to shower before bed, when I see she's still staring the direction the guys just left in. She keeps on staring, even though the guys are long out of view. "Madge?"

"What?" she says without looking my direction.

Hm. I can't seem to read what Madge is thinking these days. "What are you thinking about?" _Gale's newly smooth face combined with a head of dark wet hair, no doubt. _

"Um…," she hums. She finally looks back at me. She shakes her head from the haze. "I was thinking I need to apologize to you."

I don't know where that came from. "Huh?"

She shifts uncomfortably on the bed. "I was keeping things from you, protecting you. I'm sorry. I wasn't trying to belittle your abilities. I was worried about you," she says in quick succession.

I was planning on scolding her for this, but obviously I don't need to give her a hard time. She's feeling guilty enough about it as it is. There were several months, after all, in which _everyone_ was worried about me. "You were right to be worried, but I'm better now."

"I should have done more to help you."

"It wasn't your responsibility."

"It was! Katniss, you're my friend. I should have taken care of you."

I shake my head. If Gale, Prim, and my mother didn't help, there clearly wasn't hope. "It wouldn't have made a difference. I wasn't better until I had Peeta back."

"I'm glad you have him." Her shoulders sink down, as if a weight has just been placed on them. "I wouldn't have been very helpful to you then anyway," she says quietly.

"Madge, you're so much stronger than I am. I fell apart when I lost Peeta. You became a soldier, one of the best soldiers in Thirteen."

"Eventually." She shrugs. "You were depressed, but I was just angry. I was angry all the time. It kept me up at night. I fought with everyone I worked with. I wanted to be stronger so I could take from the Capitol what they took from me. I had no noble cause. I wanted revenge."

If she feels guilty about that, she shouldn't. There's no reason to. We all hate the Capitol. "A great deal of this war is based on revenge. We just pretend otherwise."

"Did you know Gale's the one who suggested I start training?" she says off-hand.

"No. I didn't know that."

"It helped me channel a lot of my anger."

"No kidding." Most of that anger is thrown Gale's way nowadays. "Why are you so mean to him?" I sound like a seventh grader, but I don't understand her animosity for Gale.

Madge blanches. She sits up straighter. Is she shocked that I noticed how she treats Gale? She's got a touch of delusion just like he does. "I'm not…he just…he starts it."

"No he doesn't. You start it. Granted, tonight you have been civil." Mostly because you weren't allowed to speak for much of it. "But normally, every time you talk you pick a fight."

"It doesn't matter. I'm taking a shower." Madge jumps out of bed with new energy, dashes around the bed and into the shower room. I follow behind her. She whips the strange paper robe over her head but she doesn't get in the shower. I take off the robe as well and throw it aside. She paces back and forth in front of a full-length mirror and a row of lockers.

"Madge, talk to me. Why are you so mad at Gale?"

"I'm not!" Her voice echoes against the bright while tile. I'm glad we stepped into another room.

"I won't betray your trust," I promise. To be fair, I've been better friends with Gale and I have with Madge. I don't blame her for not trusting me when it comes to him.

Her hands flex in and out of fists. I'll bet she wishes she could shoot something. "I just…I _hate_ him," she rasps.

Hates him? Madge has a lot of anger these days, but she doesn't hate anyone. Madge doesn't have it in her. "What do you mean?"

"He told me to train because he thought I would fail at it."

_What?_ There was so much I missed out during those months in Thirteen, especially at the beginning when I was basically confined to a bed. I wasn't there for Madge's training. By the time I did work in the training center Madge was running her own platoon.

She sits down on a bench and runs her fingers over the many pockets of her sturdy pants. The Madge I knew in Twelve never would have worn anything like the uniform she wears now. "The first day of training, we got instructions on how to use a rifle," she explains. "It was too heavy for me and when it kicked back I dropped it. Gale came over and picked it up, but he didn't hand it back. He told me I should go check with the school to see if they needed help teaching music." Her eyes tell me how hurt and enraged she was both then and now.

"Madge—"

"He had no faith that I could succeed in what he excels at." She stands up. She paces around again. "He had—_has_ no respect for my abilities or for my anger. I was the mayor's daughter. I lived in town. So that means I don't deserve to be angry?" she questions. I neither nod nor shake my head. "I know he grew up in the Seam and he's been angry his entire life, but he doesn't get to be the only one who hates the Capitol! I lost _both_ my parents. I have no one." Her eyes are glassy. Tears fall down her flushed cheeks.

I step forward and take her shaking hands. "You have me. You're my sister."

Her breath trembles and she exhales. "He has his whole goddamn family."

I wince when she says that because I'm glad his family is alive and safe. Madge can't really hate Gale for that, can she?

"He was strong enough to save them. I couldn't save my parents because I was too weak. Every time I look at him he just reminds me that I'm not strong enough."

_Oh, Madge._

I wrap my arms around her. She whimpers into my shoulder. I hear the doors sweep open in the other room. Wing is laughing at some joke he made I'm sure, because Gale and Garrett don't crack jokes often.

Madge is wildly wiping at her tears. This isn't something I can fix with a quick encouragement or a hug. This isn't something I can fix. Gale has to fix it.

I squeeze her arm. I try to let her know that I understand. "Take a shower. I'll make sure the guys go to sleep."

She nods and steps back. The water turns on a few seconds later.

I walk back into the room. Dr. Holden is missing. All the guys are sitting on the beds they came in on. I stare at Wing. I stare at Gale. I'm a little angry at him. I can't help it. "I think we should go to bed. Get some rest before we land."

"We'll wait up for Madge," Wing says, but his yawn contradicts his statement.

"We're all tired. Let's go to sleep." Everyone lies down. A few desk lamps switch off. There happens to be a couple extra beds so I climb into one next to Madge's. The water running in the shower is the only sound apart from the occasional snore. It lulls me to sleep. I wonder if there's anyone who hasn't been broken by this war.


	10. Fatigue

A/N: Another reminder to vote in the Countdown to Mockingjay fanfiction contest. There are some great stories that need your support!

http:/sites(dot)google(dot)com/site/countdowntomockingjay/

Thank you to Medea Smyke for pre-reading!

**Fatigue**

I'm startled awake, but I'm too drowsy to do anything about it. I don't understand what I'm seeing. There's a woman standing next to my bed. My heart skips. Katniss? Wait. No. The woman is a little too tall and a tad too shapely. Katniss doesn't wear her hair that way. It's too bright in here to focus. One of the side lights glares down at me, blinding my bleary eyes. The woman holds some kind of crinkling plastic thing in her hand. There's an open drawer next to me.

_Oh God._

I've never woken up so quickly. "Mrs. Everdeen. What are you—?"

"Shell said you overslept. I came in to check on you. I was worried about you after that episode in the dining hall." She doesn't look at me. She stares at the item in her hands. Why was she even looking in the drawer? Unless she was snooping. Mothers do that. It didn't help that the condoms are hidden in the most obvious place possible.

"It's not what you think," I plead. I force myself into a sitting position, but I grunt as I do it.

"It's not?" she scoffs.

"No!"

She raises both her eyebrows at me. She holds out the square of plastic. My face burns.

_Nice one, Mellark._ "Well…yes. _That_ is what you think it is, but we're not…I mean…I didn't put those there." There's no chance in hell she believes me, even though it's the truth. The nurse practitioner who runs the hospital wing would have to take credit for those. She's more adamant about birth control than the teachers at school used to be. One afternoon, she came right in my room, shoved a handful of those things in the drawer and muttered something about the food limit being breached and how she couldn't handle any more babies because of all the "goddamn refugees eating our food." She's a peach of a woman.

"Of course," Mrs. Everdeen says with a shake of her head. She thinks I'm being a typical teenager, making nonsense excuses for a vastly obvious situation.

"No. That's not it. We…uh…we're married," I blurt out. I'm breaking my promise, but I imagine Katniss would do the same thing were she in this situation.

"You're…married?" she says in disbelief. She's hurt or something. Maybe just shocked. This isn't the first time I've made this confession, but the stunned look on her face tells me she knew it was a lie the first time. Maybe Katniss told her, or maybe she just figured it out. I mean, Katniss and I weren't even on speaking terms for months following the first Games. There was no secret romance going on. When would we have gotten married? And even when we _were_ talking she had to have noticed we were only lovey dovey when there was a Peacekeeper in the house. Mothers see that kind of stuff. Most mothers anyway.

"Yeah," I mumble. I wish I had some sort of proof, but I don't. I don't have a marriage license or a ring or anything. In fact, we ate our only evidence. "We did a toasting before she left." I also want to tell Mrs. Everdeen I wasn't the one who put the condoms there, but I doubt she would believe me. I adjust the pillows behind my back so I can lean against the wall. I'm too tired to sit up on my own.

"Oh," Mrs. Everdeen says in a cheerless tone. She drops the plastic square back in the drawer and pushes it closed. She takes a few steps back and carefully sits on a nearby chair. "I didn't know."

It wasn't supposed to be like this. Katniss isn't one to run through the hallways and announce our marriage to everyone we came across like I wanted to, but at the very least she was supposed to be here when her mother found out. And it wasn't supposed to be after finding condoms in our bedside table.

Mrs. Everdeen sits silently, hands folded in her lap, still absorbing the news.

"It was with bread from the kitchen and emergency candles. Not exactly a formal event," I explain. Why am I trying to convince her it wasn't a big deal? It is the best thing to happen in my life. "No one knows. She wasn't ready to tell people. She promised we would when she comes back. I didn't want to fight with her about it." I put all the blame on Katniss, but it doesn't make me feel better. A mother shouldn't find out this way.

* * *

"_Who is this?" I hold a folded piece of paper in front of Katniss. It's a photo and a description of one of the spies in the Capitol. She needs to know all the people she might be working with so she doesn't kill them on accident. We've been going at this for about thirty minutes and she hasn't retained a thing. Her eyes are drooping. She leans against my shoulder. After the day she had, she's too tired for this. I am too, but I do it anyway. _

_Katniss yawns. "Um…it starts with a…B?" _

"_No."_

"_Then it's a D, right?" Another yawn. _

"_Not even close."_

_She's annoyed. "Just give it to me." She snags the paper out of my hand and reads over the description. "I'll never remember any of this. I don't think the mission is going to come down to whether or not I know that Strutz Callahan has three daughters and enjoys cricket." She throws the paper down with the rest that are strewn over our bed. She kicks her feet so the blanket covering us is pushed down along with the papers. Several of them fall to the floor. _

"_You can't even remember their names so I doubt you'll remember all that." _

_She shrugs her shoulders and hugs her knees to her chest. She looks away. Now she's tired and cranky. I touch the strap of her tank top, but she doesn't turn around. _

"_They just want you to know who you can trust," I say gently. _

"_I trust Prim, Gale, and Madge's skills with a handgun," she spits. _

_I have to smile because it's not a bad attitude to have. Every person in these photos is a double agent and that doesn't make them trustworthy. But every day that goes by that the Underground is not invaded or obliterated like the rest of Thirteen, we're reassured we trust the right people. Still, I notice someone significant is missing from her list. I lean forward. I rub up and down her arms. I place a kiss on her shoulder. "You don't trust me?" I whisper. _

_She twists her head around. A devilish smirk plays on her lips. "I trust you least of all." _

"_Oh really?" I hum. _

"_Yes." _

_She's lying. I can see right through it. If I learned anything from how we spent last night, I know she trusts me. She offered her heart and her body to me. I took it all gratefully and carefully because I know how hard it was for her to be completely vulnerable. I can handle her teasing only because I know her so well. "I've never lied to you." I pull the band out of the bottom of her braid and loosen the intricate pattern. She lays her head on her knees. _

"_No, but you _can_ lie. You can lie better than me."_

"_Well, that doesn't take much," I reply, but I don't really mean it. Katniss can lie well. I've fallen for it, but that might not have anything to do with her skills. I was just so desperate to believe her. _

_I shake my head from those thoughts because they bring back feelings I don't wish to experience again. I concentrate on smoothing out her dark, lustrous hair, using my fingers as a comb. She sighs and closes her eyes. Relaxed. A moment of peace. _

_I scoot closer to her and lay down. I tug on her arm and take her with me. And it's easy. For the first time. She doesn't worry about someone coming through the door. She doesn't argue about sleeping on the cot. She just lays her head on my shoulder, nuzzles her face into my neck, and presses her tiny, warm body against mine, like it's the most natural thing in the world. The papers at our feet crinkle and it's impossible to forget what's coming tomorrow. I hug her closer. I'm tired, but I don't want to sleep. I talk. "Speaking of lying, when are we going to say something?"_

"_About what?" she murmurs sleepily. A third yawn; this one against my throat. _

"_Oh, that little life changing event that occurred about twenty hours ago."_

_Katniss stiffens. The gesture doesn't make me happy, but it doesn't surprise me either. She refuses come out from her hiding place because this way she can talk without revealing her face to me. I can read her too well. "It's no one's business."_

"_But that's the thing about weddings, you can make it everyone's business and they have to say congratulations and pretend to be happy for us," I tease. Everyone would be happy for us. Those who actually care. I imagine Haymitch giving me a hearty pat on the back, Prim squeezing the life from me in her embrace, Finnick congratulating us, and Plutarch offering a sincere blessing. They know what we've been through. I've wanted this for so long. It's finally real. I want others to know how real it is. _

_Katniss remains silent. It makes me nervous, despite everything she said last night. The promises, the affection, and her confession of love. As real as they are, doubt creeps in. Does she regret what happened last night? Is she ashamed? She promised me her actions are no longer dishonest, but the fear remains. It comes from an old hurt that hasn't entirely healed yet. "Katniss?" I question, the fear laced in my voice. _

_Katniss readjusts her head so it's lying on my chest, over my heart. "I don't want to go back to that. 'The big show.' " She waves her hand in the air. A lackluster gesture for the enormous influence the Games played on our relationship. _

_I run my hand through her hair again and scratch the side of her head. "It won't be like that." _

"_I like it this way."_

"_A secret? Are you ashamed of me?" I ask in a teasing manner, but there's something beneath it, even if it is absurd. I am a good liar. _

_She sits up on her elbows. Her eyes are steady. Serious. "Private."_

_I feel better. She's happiest when it's just the two of us. I am, too. I need to remember that. There just happens to be a part of me that wants to tell the world how much I love her, how she belongs to me and I belong to her. I suppose I've done my fair share of that already. It's Katniss' turn to call the shots. "What about your mother and Prim?"_

_Her face softens. She looks guilty. There are people in her life who need to know, starting with my new in-laws. "We know why we did it. That's all that matters," she deflects. And now she makes it too easy to tease her. _

"_And why did we do it?" I say with an exaggerated eyebrow. _

_She is not pleased. "Peeta!"_

_I roll her onto her back. My leg wedges between hers. I hold her at her waist. And it's so easy. I kiss below Katniss' ear because it makes her gasp. Every time. "It was for the sex, wasn't it?" I whisper seductively. I kiss her neck again so she knows I don't mean it. Her skin warms under my touch._

"_That's what everyone will think," she grumbles. "That's what everyone thinks already."_

_I rub my hand over her stomach. "Well, you were pregnant with my baby." I chuckle. She doesn't laugh. I find it funny how this bothers her. You'd think after all our experiences the purity would be driven out of her. It's made even more ironic considering she could end all the gossip by telling people we're married. I give up trying to understand her logic. If this is what makes her happy, she can have it. _

"_Is that why you married me?" she asks in a timid voice. I only hear it because my face is next to hers. To clear my name? She knows I don't care about the gossip. Or does she mean I married her for the sex like I joked about earlier? _

_I tear my mouth away from her ear. Her face is exhausted and nervous. I feel terrible for making her doubt me, even for a second. She does trust me, but it's still new. I put my hand on her cheek. I kiss the side of her face. "I think I'm in love with you, Mrs. Mellark." I've never called her this. No one has. She fights a smile. Her eyes shine. The joy swells up in me so quickly I'm overwhelmed. I swallow to force back the lump in my throat. "I'm so honored you married me." I seal the promise with a kiss. Her lips part, they invite me in, and it's not only easy, it's right. This is how it is supposed to be, how it will be. I pull back, but I don't stop kissing her. I grip her shoulders to hold her closer. My lips brush her cheeks, her eyelids, and her chin. The kisses are lazy and slow because I am tired. I want her, but there's simply no energy. That really frustrates me because it's too soon in our marriage for that. _

_I rest my forehead against hers, taking a moment to breathe. Her hands are on my neck; her thumbs stroke the sides of my face. I smile. "And now you can't get rid of me." That's a reason to get married if there ever was one. _

_Katniss' thumbs stop moving. Her breath is slow, not excited like mine. "When I get back. We'll tell everyone when I get back," she says casually, like she's just planning to leave for a brief vacation. _

"_I'm holding you to that." It's more than just a promise to share the news of our marriage. We both know it. _

_

* * *

_

I've survived some highly stressful and dangerous situations, sometimes within an inch of my life, but survived all the same. During some of those events I was certain I wouldn't come out alive, and this situation is no different. I fiddle with the edge of a blanket, waiting anxiously for Mrs. Everdeen to say or do something. She doesn't look shocked like she did before, just sad. It's not a reaction I wanted to see from anyone after informing them of my marriage.

"I'm sorry if this upsets you, but I love her. I swear it," I say. Just in case I haven't said it enough. "I promise I will take care of her." When she's done taking care of me, hopefully. Mrs. Everdeen isn't visibly relieved by my words. Her quiet makes me nervous, just like her daughter. "You do believe me, right?" I wait out her response. Mrs. Everdeen stares at the floor between us. She doesn't fidget or squirm. If she's angry, I can't tell. If she's disappointed, I can't tell. She doesn't deal with unexpected news like a typical person. My mother would be yelling and screaming and throwing chairs in my direction, but then she also didn't like Katniss much.

When her eyes rise up, they're flat. She keeps her voice surprisingly even. "What did your father tell you about me?"

I'm confused by the question. I have an answer; I just don't know where the question came from. This doesn't have anything to do with my father, Mrs. Everdeen, or their past. "Not much. Just that he wanted to marry you and you ran off with Katniss' father." It's the same thing I said to Katniss. That is the end of the story as far as I know.

Mrs. Everdeen appears sad again. "So, he didn't tell you."

"Didn't tell me what?"

"Your father was a very respectable man. He was a_ good_ man. Even after I hurt him he didn't slander my name." Her voice remains calm, uneasily so.

My dad never said a poor thing about the Everdeens, but he didn't say much about them in general. I'd known since I was five that he wanted to marry Mrs. Everdeen, but it wasn't until I was much older that I realized he had been in love with her and she chose someone else. I didn't appreciate how much that may have affected him as a young man until I experienced a broken heart myself. While he was alive, I figured he was over whatever happened in the past, but he didn't care to go into it, which made sense. Most people suffer heartache and most people don't wish to suffer through it for the rest of their lives. "What are you getting at?" I ask.

She shifts in her seat; her first indication of being uncomfortable. "Peeta, my relationship with your father was more involved than he led you to believe." She pushes her blonde bangs out of her face. There's some gray mixed in there now. She's too young for gray hair, but it's been a stressful few years. "I was in my last year of school. He was a few years older than me. He was already established in the bakery. Our parents were good friends. They were planning our wedding."

My mouth drops open. My head feels light as I comprehend how close Katniss and I were to being brother and sister. "You and my dad were engaged?"

"We were in a courtship, not quite engaged, but it was headed that way." She sighs again. I try to imagine my dad with Katniss' mom and the image doesn't fit. I put my dad with my actual mom and I don't like that image much either. I pinch the bridge of my nose. I am way too tired to have a handle on this. "But you ended up with Katniss' father."

"Yes, I did. I 'ran off' with him," she says nervously, using my dad's description. "My parents never would have approved so we eloped. But choosing him, it wasn't an easy decision. I lost every part of my former life. My parents refused to have anything to do with me after I was married. They acted like I didn't exist." She pauses and thinks again.

I don't know what to say. Maybe she doesn't want me to say anything. What does this have to do with Katniss and me?

"But your father," she begins again. "He was different. He didn't speak to me, but I don't fault him for that. Not after what I did to him. Despite that, later in life he showed such kindness to my daughters. He made trades with them. He cared about them." Her eyes catch mine and I can't look away. I haven't talked to anyone about my family since the Quell. I did briefly with Katniss, but not with anyone who knew them. It's hard to listen to it. I want to know more, but I don't. I can only assume she's telling the truth. I can't ask my dad.

"Why are you telling me this?" I choke.

"Katniss is so much like her father, but there are pieces of me in her personality, pieces I'm not proud of." She hugs her arms against her body. Her hair falls over her eyes again. She expects me to encourage her. I don't want to. This will lead to something bad. I don't want to know. Katniss _is_ my wife. I don't want anything negative connecting to that truth. It's not only the best thing in my life, it's the _only_ good thing. Mrs. Everdeen doesn't take my silence as a deterrent. She talks because she needs to. "Katniss makes rash decisions."

"It wasn't…" I try, but I can't continue. Our wedding was in the middle of the night. It was after she told me she was leaving on a life or death mission. It wasn't thought out. It happened even after I promised her a few hours earlier I would wait until there was no longer a threat to our lives. That promise definitely did not stick.

"She makes choices that she could later regret."

And now I'm angry. My teeth gnash together. My jaw hurts. What's the regret? That she married me or that she picked me? "You think she should be with Gale," I snap.

"I think she should be with the person she loves and who makes her happy," she says automatically.

"That's what she did!" I slam a fist into the mattress. Mrs. Everdeen's eyes drop off. She looks away. I scared her or something. I'm not making myself look very good. I take a breath and calm down. "I make Katniss happy." I try to assure her, but my voice still sounds stiff.

Mrs. Everdeen stands up and makes a lap around the room. She keeps her arms tucked in. Katniss doesn't look like her. It's not only the hair. Katniss has different eyes and a different nose. She has her mother's chin though. It's the only similarity I can see. Her mother sees more. She sees her daughter presented with the same choices she had as a young woman, but Katniss chose differently. Katniss chose the merchant. But what regret is Mrs. Everdeen talking about? I feel angry again because I'm confused. "What are you saying? You regret choosing Katniss's dad?"

"No, Peeta. No. I regret hurting your father. He didn't deserve that."

_You're right,_ I think indignantly. He didn't.

She continues on. Her voice becoming more and more agitated. It's lost all the calm from before. "I don't want Katniss to have any regrets in her life. I don't want her to make the same mistakes I did."

I think back to the Games and all the awful things it forced us to do. I think causing Gale a little heartache should be the least of her regrets. Yet in the last year, this dilemma caused her just as much stress as the other shit. But it changed. Once she had me, once we had each other, it settled. She got better. And it wasn't just Katniss and me. Gale is better, too. Doesn't her mother see that? "I don't think you give your daughter enough credit. She made peace with Gale. She's not trying to hurt anyone. She's not trying to hurt _you_," I emphasize, not by choosing the merchant and not by keeping it from her.

Mrs. Everdeen stops in her tracks. She squeezes her eyes shut and a tear falls down her face. She quickly wipes it away. "I didn't think it was real," she whispers.

"What?" I bark. I don't mean to be short, but I don't want to be in this conversation anymore.

Another tear threatens to fall. Mrs. Everdeen runs her finger under her eye before it escapes. "Your…relationship," she finishes.

Now I really don't want to be part of this conversation. She saw through the show. I pull the blanket further up my torso because I'm cold. "Just her or both of us?"

"I knew if you were any bit of the man your father was then I had no reason to doubt you."

Well, at least someone can tell when I'm lying and when I'm not. "And Katniss?"

She tips her head down, unable to look me in the eye. She wasn't fooled. A mother wouldn't be. "That's why I was so concerned about her reaction to your capture. I thought she felt guilty for failing you. I was afraid she dedicated herself to…to…" She can't finish. Because she's a mother. Because she doesn't want to hurt me that way. The same way she hurt my dad.

"Someone she wasn't in love with," I mutter. The hurt resonates in my chest, as real as it ever was. The rejection and the lies. It tears through me deeper than the stroke of a knife. I press my hand over my heart, as if I can wipe the bad feelings out. I have to remind myself of our recent promises to one another. It calms me, somewhat. The severe twisting of my insides recedes. I wish again I had some proof of our vows. All I have is the memory of her words in my head. That only goes so far.

I look back to Katniss' mother. She leans against the wall across from me, staring at the light. Doesn't that hurt her eyes? "Katniss was like me," she whispers, perhaps for her own benefit. "Lost in the sadness." Her eyes glaze over as she continues to stare, her mind no longer a part of the room. Does Mrs. Everdeen know that I'm still here? I think she's reliving it. Just like I revisit the biting pain of being rejected by Katniss from time to time, her head goes back to that place of darkness. I'm pleased that I haven't seen that look on Katniss, but I'm still here. Mr. Everdeen is gone.

Suddenly, her eyes refocus and they snap back to me. There is ferocity in them. I had no idea Katniss inherited that from her mother. "Can you blame me for wanting to protect her from that kind of pain?" she seethes.

I shake my head. Mrs. Everdeen is wrong. I take that pain away. Katniss told me that the same night we were reunited. Besides, it's not her job to protect her daughter anymore, it's mine. "Being with someone else is not going to prevent that from happening. You said yourself you wouldn't do anything differently," I accuse.

She opens her mouth, but nothing comes out. She falls back into the chair and buries her head in her hands. "I'm sorry. I'm not making sense," she moans, her voice muffled by her hands.

I see a facet of Katniss in her mother again. One Katniss would hate to recognize because she'd see it as a weakness. Both women are desperate to make some sense out of the last two years. Mrs. Everdeen is still trying to make sense of the last decade. I can see what Mrs. Everdeen fails to communicate because I know her daughter, my wife. "Katniss was depressed when I was gone, she hurt another man by following her heart, and she got married without telling her mother. She's like you, and you don't want her to be like you."

Mrs. Everdeen lifts up her head. Her cheeks are red and splotchy, but her eyes are pleased or satisfied or something. She's just glad to be understood. For a brief moment, I'm thankful Katniss isn't here, only because Katniss would not have understood what her mother felt. Not because Katniss isn't sensitive or intelligent, because Mrs. Everdeen is Katniss' mother, and she has never understood her.

"Always the eloquent speaker," she rasps, her voice riddled with the tears she holds back.

Yeah, well, sometimes. I sit up straighter, so she knows I'm being serious. "Mrs. Everdeen, I won't deny that we were scared by this mission. We're scared of losing each other again, so we got married, and it doesn't fix anything. But it felt right and I don't regret it because if…" These words are hard to say. They're hard to think. "If…I do lose her at least she knows what she means to me, and she finally believes it."

Mrs. Everdeen covers her mouth with her hand and takes a few breaths through her nose. She stands up again and moves with a purpose toward me. And suddenly, her arms are around my shoulders. It feels foreign. My mother hugged me, not often, but she did. It didn't feel like this. It never felt warm or safe or comforting in any way. I never wanted to hug back. "Your father would be very proud of the man you've become." She's telling the truth. I don't know if Mrs. Everdeen is a good liar or not, but somehow I know it's the truth.

"Thanks," I say when she lets me go. I'm not lying either.

After trudging through the heaviness of this conversation, I feel like going back to sleep. We've moved past something monumental. When Katniss shares the news with her mother, Mrs. Everdeen can just be happy for her. It will be good for their relationship.

"You must be hungry," Mrs. Everdeen says, changing the subject to something normal in one fell swoop. "It's almost eleven and you haven't had any breakfast."

Eleven? Wow. Every day I sleep in later and later. I am hungry, I think. Last night I didn't eat any dinner. It was brought to me because I complained to Shell that I was too tired to go down to the dining hall. I picked at it, but lost my appetite once it was set in front of me. I feel achy when swing my legs off the bed. I reach for my wheelchair for support. My legs are shaky when I put weight on them. Arms are cradling me, leading me into the chair.

"Let me help you."

I immediately decline. I'm tired of being helped. "That's okay, I—"

"Let me help you, Peeta," she repeats with added force. "Katniss would never forgive me if I left you in any discomfort. Besides, it's my job."

I make it into the chair. My head feels a little dizzy. I'll be better after I've eaten something. Mrs. Everdeen takes a blanket off my bed and lays it over my lap. She knew I was cold. She's good at her job. "You're a healer."

"No, I have a responsibility to you." Her knees crack as she kneels down. She sits on her heels so I don't have to look up at her. She holds my hand tightly. "You're my son." There's warmth and comfort again. She must have realized, as do I, in a twisted way things have come full circle. Even with a broken heart, my father watched out for her daughters as best he could, and finally, she can return the favor. I have the mother that I might have had in a different walk of life. She's smiling at me. It grows when the sound of small footsteps are heard entering the room "And she's your sister."

"What?" a sweet voice rings. A miniature version of Mrs. Everdeen walks into the room. Prim is her mother. The hair, the eyes, the smile, but none of the bad. Mrs. Everdeen and Katniss harbored all the bad and kept Prim as pure as possible. She looks expectantly at me. There's no way I can avoid telling her.

"Uh, Katniss and I got married the other night."

"No!" she shouts, but the look on her face expresses the exact opposite. Her eyes are as big as saucers. "Oh, Peeta! I'm so happy for you and Katniss!" She tosses herself on top of me, practically in my lap. I think it's supposed to be a hug.

"Hey! Don't tackle the cripple," I groan, but there's no harshness in it.

She apologizes anyway. "Oh, sorry."

Out of every person in the world, Prim is the only person I think Katniss would be excited to tell. I feel bad she isn't here to see the unadulterated joy radiating from her sister. "She's going to be so mad I told you."

"I don't care if Katniss is mad," she scoffs. She jumps behind me and starts pushing my chair. I don't mind. I enjoy listening to her excitement. Finally, someone feels the way I do about it. "I can't believe it! She said she wasn't interested in marriage."

"Actually, it was her idea."

"You're kidding! Did it happen on the day you two spent together?"

"Yup."

"I knew it. I just knew it." She slaps the handle of my chair. I hear her mother chuckle beside me. "I had a feeling. She said she wasn't interested, but there was something about that loaf of bread."

"You knew about the bread?"

"I put together the food for you. Well, both Katniss and I did, but I convinced the kitchen staff to give you the whole spread. When I held that loaf of bread in my hands I just knew it would be perfect for a toasting."

I really like my new little sister.


	11. Bruise

A/N: Lots of news. First off, did anyone else notice that Madge was listed twice in the character selection? Well, I informed the staff of FFn and they fixed it, but consequently half of the Madge stories now have "unknown" in the character description. So, uh, if you have a Madge story, you might want to check it. Sorry to both authors and to Madge. She does tend to get the short end of the stick.

Secondly, I recently joined the staff of Muttations Podcast. I'm a contributor to the Fanfic Pick page, where I will be posting my own HG fic recommendations. Check my profile for linkage.

In case FFn is failing in the posts, you can also read this story at thegirlonfire(dot)com. If it's failing in the alerts you can follow me on the tweety: KenoshaChick10

Lastly, the votes are in and the winners have been chosen in the Countdown to Mockingjay contest. Check out the site to see the winners.

Thanks to Medea Smyke for pre-reading!

Phew. Story time. Enjoy.

**Bruise **

"Hawthorne! I swear to God, if you don't sit still," Wing gripes. However, he conveniently leaves out the threat. That's Wing. All bluster and no bite. Gale continues to march back and forth between the mirrored strings of hospital beds.

"I don't understand how you can just lie around," Gale fires back. Gale has been pacing since he woke up, stifling his anxiety with exercise. He was never this antsy in Twelve, but back there he had an entire forest in which he could rant and rage. There's no room for his boiling energy here. Meanwhile, Wing has been relaxing on Madge's bed all morning. Although, he might as well not be on her bed because Madge is sitting at the end with her legs crossed under her, keeping her eyes on her lap. She's been very quiet.

When the boys stop bickering the room settles in a quiet hush. Dr. Holden checks over the patients who were deliberately injected with disease. Despite this, they seem in good spirits as they eat large breakfasts of eggs, toast, and potatoes. I think I recognize some of them, but I don't know for sure. I've yet to get a good look at anyone. Each time I glance over someone's face for a prolonged period of time their eyes flicker to mine and they stare. I'm easy to recognize. And I have to look away. I don't know what the right reaction is. Haymitch didn't coach me on this.

"How are all of my favorite patients feeling this morning?" Dr. Holden recites as he picks up a clipboard from the foot of my bed and scribbles on it—falsifying documents no doubt. We're all supposed to be suffering a dire illness right now.

"I think I've got a touch of something, Doc," Wing calls out.

"You don't say? What is it?" the doctor asks without looking up from the papers.

"It's right here in my chest." Wing lays his big ring-less hand over the left side of his chest dramatically. "I think it's my heart," he croaks. He nudges Madge in the elbow with his foot. I don't miss the way Gale grunts indignantly from the other side of the room. Undoubtedly, he's irritated with Wing, but the exact reasoning is unclear.

Despite his skepticism, the good doctor walks over to Wing, instructs him to sit forward, and situates his stethoscope on Wing's front. A few seconds pass and he throws the instrument back around his neck. "I think your heart is fine."

"If you say so, Doc." Wing settles back against Madge's pillows. He nudges her again and this time she looks over her shoulder, offering a small smile before she turns back around. Wing fails to make her laugh like he could yesterday or any day before now. The silence sends a pang of guilt twisting through me.

I regret pushing Madge to admit the truth about Gale. It hasn't helped things at all with their relationship and I damaged what fondness she had for Wing. This may please Gale if he notices, but it obviously isn't bringing Madge any happiness. If only Gale knew he is the source of so much grief. He would never have let it go on for this long, especially if he was developing feelings for her. Gale is hardheaded, but he's not cruel. Unfortunately, this isn't an issue that can be brought up at the moment. Emotional compromises and whatnot. We will have to wait till we get back to Thirteen to address the inevitable Gale/Madge/Wing blowout.

The room is too cold so I snuggle into my covers. The silver paper gowns we're supposed to be wearing must provide good insulation, because the other patients don't appear bothered by the chill of the room. I see a man and a woman whispering over the rims of their coffee cups. When they peek at me simultaneously I put my sights on the ceiling. They're whispering about me. I know it. It's no different from the whispers in Thirteen or the stares in the Capitol. I hate it. I know I was sent to boost morale or some kind of nonsense, but how does my mere presence boost morale? The fact that I'm alive is no great victory of mine. It's the achievement of the skillful minds around me who claim I deserve to live. Unless the spies are appalled by the amount of time and energy put into keeping me alive, they have no reason to gawk as they do.

"How are you feeling, Ms. Everdeen?" a voice as smooth as silk murmurs close to my ear. Dr. Holden stands over me. I think I dislike his look most of all. His eyes are kind and he speaks in the calming voice of a healer, but his perfection disturbs me. Perhaps I've grown too accustomed to seeing people with pale skin and tired eyes.

"I'm dying," I deadpan in reply. "I forget the illness. What is it? The flu? Some kind of parasite?"

Dr. Holden chuckles and even his laugh is warm. The scent of his overly minty breath washes over me. It's too sharp—like he sucked on an entire bag of peppermints. "Can I show you something?" His eyes flicker to the door.

"I thought I wasn't supposed to leave." While the guys have been able to traipse around the deck, I've been stuck in the quarantine room for fear of being recognized, which is also the point of my being here, so it's all very confusing.

"It will be alright. The Peacekeeper likes to sleep in," he promises with a wink.

I'm conflicted. I can stay here and suffer through the whispers or I can go off alone with the man who gives me a creepy vibe. Neither option appeals to me, but the offer for some freedom from the quarantine room is slightly preferable. Besides, if either the Peacekeeper comes along or Dr. Holden tries something questionable, I have my gun. I don't want it to come to that, but that is what it's there for.

Dr. Holden takes me through the sliding doors and down a narrow corridor. I observe the way he walks and the way he locks his wrists behind his back. There isn't a single threatening thing about him, from his appearance to his body language, and still I feel a creeping sensation crawl up and down my back. The glare on his glasses obstructs my ability to see his eyes, but I feel them on me.

"You don't think much of your position in the rebellion, do you, Ms. Everdeen?" he asks.

Think much of it? The thought has consumed my every move and decision for over a year. But if he's asking if my status as the Mockingjay is something I desire or think of fondly, then no, I don't think much of it. It isn't a cause I chose to lead. It is a long series of manipulations that never seem to end. Do accept it? I'm here. That's indication enough. "It doesn't matter what I think. It never has," I mutter toward the floor.

"I see," he responds.

I'm left with nothing to say. I sound ungrateful and bitter. How _should _I present myself to the spies in the quarantine? Shaking their hands and offering enthusiastic cheers of encouragement? No one has ever interpreted my enthusiasm as sincere; anyone with half a brain. It would feel like I was part of a show again, and at no point did Haymitch instruct me to act while on this mission. If they want to see Katniss then they get to see the real Katniss; bitterness and resentment included.

We reach the end of the hall and are met with another pair of sliding doors. Holden punches in a code on the side panel and the doors whoosh apart. We step into a recreational room similar to the one on the hovercraft we left behind. This one has a larger kitchen and additional seating. The room is empty of any persons and looks rather sad despite the superior trimmings.

"What did you want to show me?" I ask quietly, hoping that he really just meant to give me a break from the whispers.

"This." He gestures toward the windows on the right side of the room. The bottom edge of the glass starts at my hip and extends all the way to the ceiling. The brightness of the morning fills the cabin, but it's the harsh rainbow of colors of the Capitol buildings that causes me to squint. I've never viewed the Capitol from a hovercraft, as we came in on trains during prior occasions. From here I can see the vastness of the city. It extends far into the horizon—sparkling like the surface of a lake on a summer day. I'm inclined to turn away, uninterested in witnessing the prosperity. However, when my eyes eventually adjust to the light and the reflectance of the tall buildings, I begin to absorb the details. The buildings still stand hundreds of feet in the air, but so many windows are cracked or broken. Bands of windows on the lower stories are boarded up. The streets are eerily vacant, lacking the familiar buzzing of cars or people lining the sidewalks in their fantastical hairstyles and clothing. In fact, I can't see a single person—like the city has been deserted. It must be because we're up so high that I can't see them. Further off in the distance the buildings reduce in size and don't sparkle like the taller ones near the center. They're blackened and crumbling, like they've been burned. I've never seen those buildings on the edges of the city from the train. And even from the rooftop of the training center our view must have been obscured. It's unreal. It's some kind of trick. The Capitol is nothing but decadence and riches as far as the eye can see, right? No one has ever said anything different. Nonetheless, it looks as though parts of the city have fallen into a warzone, but the war isn't being fought here.

"What happened?" I say barely above a whisper.

"Did you think we were having parties while you were stowed away in Thirteen?" He doesn't laugh at his own joke or insult—whatever it was meant to be.

"You're from the Capitol?"

"I am," he admits. He's not proud or ashamed. He acknowledges the fact.

I should have realized. It explains both his flawlessness and his ability to organize this complex ruse with little help. And despite the disconcerting nature of his appearance, relative to what I've seen in the Capitol, he's not as unusual as he could be. "You're not as…odd as some."

"I'm plenty odd for the Capitol," he muses, but he doesn't elaborate and I don't ask him to. He leans his palms against the ledge of the window, causing him to hunch over slightly. His face is worried, like he's looking over a failing patient.

Another, much larger, hovercraft flies near us and my first instinct is to duck. Dr. Holden doesn't even flinch and I realize I can't see into the windows of the nearby hovercraft, so I presume they can't see us. I take a moment to swallow my momentary panic. "So, what happened here?" I repeat, hoping he doesn't notice the bead of sweat on my forehead.

Dr. Holden's head falls between his shoulders. The gesture screams defeat and if he were anyone else, I'd pat him on the back in reassurance. "It's all a show. It always has been. Even here."

Another hovercraft floats by. The altitude changes slightly and my ears pop. It all makes comprehending the doctor's words much harder, especially when he's talking in riddles. "I don't understand."

Dr. Holden sighs and stands up straight again. He turns around and leans against the ledge, removing his glasses and cleaning the smudges with a bright white handkerchief from his coat pocket. "I imagine you witnessed the riches and frivolity while training for your Games or during your tour." I don't nod or anything because he knows that's what I saw. He moves on to the second lens of his glasses with his handkerchief. "What you saw was real; that excess is a result of preying upon the districts. It's also what Snow wanted you to see. He wants you to believe that's how we all live."

As Dr. Holden replaces the glasses on his face I pinch the bridge of my nose. I want to stop him. It's yet another secret and one I'm not sure I want to know. If Haymitch didn't tell me then he has to have a reason. I curse myself because that thinking is wrong. I don't want to be a victim to manipulations anymore. I have to listen.

"You saw the wealth and the technology, but that isn't typical to every citizen. There are class systems here, too. Sadly, the gap between the very rich and the very poor is much wider, thus creating a huge chasm for corruption."

I assume he means corruption of the law, because the corruption of the minds of the people of the Capitol is no secret. "But you have so many Peacekeepers. I thought the law was very strict here." Another craft flies by and my whole body cringes. I turn and face the room. Living in hiding for so long has affected me more than I realized.

"It is, but the Capitol is not omniscient. When people are desperate they'll do anything. And in these past months when food has been limited and hundreds of Peacekeepers have been moved throughout the country, violence has increased."

The burn marks. The boarded up windows. Is this the result of riots upon the Capitol itself? Could there possibly be starvation in the Capitol? That was the plan of the rebellion, to drain the Capitol of resources, but to think of its citizens as desperate, especially prior to the rebellion, is absurd. The Capitol steals from _us_. They allow us to starve and they do it on purpose if they feel the need to punish us. The idea is not only absurd, it borders on offensive, like he's suggesting the Capitol has suffered more than the districts. "Are you saying there are places comparable to the Seam here?" I look back upon the city, trying to get another look at those blackened buildings, but we've dropped down in elevation and I can't see them anymore.

"Not in terms of technology, but in every other way, yes. There are slums and crime, drug cartels and a gun in every other hand."

The Seam didn't fight with guns. Even the Peacekeepers went without firearms for a long time. I feel a strange sense of appreciation for it. Knives or fists are dangerous, but I never once worried about being shot. And yet, it was my home that was bombed when the real danger lives here. "Why doesn't Snow stop it? He destroyed districts for a lot less than this."

"Because the Capitol gangs and lawbreakers aren't acting in rebellion. They depend on the wealth of Capitol for their livelihoods, as dangerous as they may be," he explains. His perfect skin is marred by the deep crease in between his eyebrows. A shadow casts darkness over the room as the sun is masked behind one of the many skyscrapers. We're coming in closer to the buildings, and the creeping feeling I had for Dr. Holden leaks into my stomach. We're only minutes away from the landing bay of the hospital.

Dr. Holden takes a cleansing breath and looks out over his own city, his home. I wonder what kind of world Dr. Rafe Holden came from, since it couldn't have been the world of comfort the Capitol is known for. How did he develop a conscience? "Where do you fall in all this?" I ask.

"Those burnt-out buildings?" He gestures toward the outskirts. "That's where I grew up. Along with my mother and my two younger siblings."

It comes as a shock to me that I could have anything in common with a Capitol citizen, least of all a well put together doctor. "And yet you're a Capitol doctor?"

"It's not a pretty story." He gives me a serious look. I nod to encourage him to continue. I have my fair share of ugly stories. I can handle his. He runs his fingers though his hair, ruffling it a bit. It takes away from his perfection, but it looks better that way. "When I was fifteen I dropped out of school and started working odd jobs to help my mother. I spent a lot of time out of our apartment. One night, my mother was carrying home groceries when she was accosted. The assailant was probably starving. He needed to feed his family. When she refused to give up her food, he shot her. She died in the street." Dr. Holden pauses.

I don't know what to do. Sympathize or talk or remain silent. I choose silence.

"My siblings and I ended up in different foster homes. I was fortunate. My foster family was wealthy. I was put back into school. I thought if I worked hard and was successful I could get my brother and sister back."

"Did you find them?" I inquire. Dr. Holden's stiffness speaks volumes. I know the answer before he says it.

"Valentina passed away from pneumonia when she was four. Liam died when he was sixteen of a stab wound. I don't how he got it," he says lowly.

I fidget in my place. No wonder Dr. Holden is risking everything to take down President Snow. He's already lost everything. "I'm sorry."

"It's not your fault," Dr. Holden breathes. "It's the fault of Snow. He lets the violence go on. And everyone else doesn't wish to disrupt their luxurious lifestyles so they pretend like the ghettos don't exist. As far as the districts know, they don't."

"Why weren't we supposed to know?"

"What is your perception of Snow after learning the truth?" Dr. Holden casts an eager expression my way and I feel more apprehensive than I did answering questions for Caesar. Someone actually wants to know my opinion to determine if I'm smart enough to be the leader of a rebellion—something I don't put much faith in myself. I take a second to digest the question. I suppose what bothers me about Dr. Holden's story, is how we've been living under such a great deception. We've remained compliant to his laws because we were brainwashed and consumed by fear. Like Dr. Holden said, it's a show. "If Snow can't manage to control his own city," I say as I observe the rough carpeting, just in case I'm coming to the wrong conclusion. "Why are we so afraid of him?"

"Exactly," he replies. "If the districts knew how tenuous and manufactured Snow's grip on the country is, there would have been riots decades ago."

_Well, this is all very interesting_. _What exactly is the point?_

"So why tell me?"

Dr. Holden stands up straight and removes the handkerchief from his pocket again. He holds it in between his fingers like it's made of glass. "Katniss, you need to know how important your influence is, not only to the people of the districts, but to the Capitol as well."

And I almost laugh in his face. Luckily, it comes out more like a cough. "The Capitol wanted to see me suffer and die for their entertainment," I scoff.

"I cannot deny that attitude exists nor can I ever expect forgiveness for that brutality, but it is not the only thing that lives here. There are good people here, or people that could be good if they weren't uneducated, scared, and trapped in Snow's corruption."

As much as I want my freedom, the aftermath of this war suddenly feels insurmountable. The Capitol won't know how to live without sucking the life out of someone else. I think of my silly prep team: Flavius, Octavia, and Venia. They're here somewhere. And they won't survive if they're forced to live on their own, or God forbid, in the wilderness. "This place is a mess. Even if the rebellion succeeds it doesn't mean all that bad is going to disappear. It might get worse."

"You're right. That's why you're here."

I want to disagree. That's why the _spies_ are here. They're going to organize things after we leave; keep the Capitol from completely imploding after Snow's surrender. Before I can say anything, Dr. Holden unravels part of his handkerchief, revealing a golden mockingjay embroidered into the fabric. I shake my head and my stomach feels worse.

"You are proof that goodness can prevail in this broken system. You provide a shining example of hope," he says confidently.

_Goodness from a broken system?_ If anything, I did what I had to do to survive a broken system, and much of it wasn't _good_. "You make me sound like a saint. I'm far from that," I grumble.

"We all are. And that is why you inspire so many. You're not a saint, and yet you stepped forward to save your sister, your friends. That's why we wear your token. It reminds us to put faith in our fellow man—a belief that has been lost for many, many years."

I motion for him to stop because I've heard more than enough. Dr. Holden tucks the handkerchief back in his coat pocket. Gale's recent words fill my head. _That you could be braver than the rest of us. That's what inspires people. _I'm reminded of every speech Haymitch gave about protecting the Mockingjay. It's overwhelming to represent the hope of so many. I just want to be safe at home with my husband and family. I suppose, that's what every person wants, even the slobs in the Capitol. However, I'm the one who's been placed on a pedestal and expected to symbolize that vision for every person in Panem without my consent. Have I accepted it? I don't know. Maybe when it's all over I'll finally accept it.

The increments of bright light shining into the cabin become shorter and shorter. In moments we'll be at the hospital which stands in the center of the city; a brilliant example of the great technology the city has to offer.

"And yet," I say with a nervous laugh in my throat, "we were sent into hell to destroy the one good thing it provides."

"Regretfully, yes," the doctor says sadly, honestly. His compliance in this mission violates his vows as a doctor and as a citizen of the Capitol. "I would have predicted you might look forward to some validation in the process. After all, the Capitol destroyed your home."

"I'm not interested in being responsible for anyone's death," I snap. I'm not pure. That's firmly established. But I'm not corrupt. Snow hasn't destroyed that piece of me.

Dr. Holden adjusts his glasses and gives me a look of apology. Look at that. My scowl does still work. "You are a remarkable creature, Ms. Everdeen."

I change the subject. I'm done talking about me and how remarkable I may or may not be. "Do the people here know there is a war going on?" I inquire because if we didn't know about the warzone that is the Capitol, perhaps they don't know the state of the rest of the country.

"Yes and no. Snow says there are disruptions, but he insists the districts will know the heavy hand of the Capitol."

"But he hasn't bombed anyone since Twelve."

"He'll cause the collapse of the country if he does, but I wouldn't put it past him. If he gets to a point where he's sure he's going to fail, he might obliterate the districts just for the hell of it." That's why everything is so covert. If he knew of our actions here today, he wouldn't hesitate to retaliate.

Suddenly, the floor vibrates and the entire hovercraft jerks forward. I grasp the ledge of the window to keep from toppling over. A red light starts flashing above us. We're about to land on the rooftop hanger.

"You sound like you know him well," I add when I have my footing.

"I was hand-picked for the President's employ. I developed several of the procedures you yourself have undergone. The body polish. The hair removal process for men."

_Wow. I'm speaking with a celebrity,_ I think sardonically. What am I supposed to say? Thank you? Although, it does explain why Dr. Holden's skin is flawless.

"I was even his personal physician for a time," he adds.

"You were his doctor?"

"One of many." Doctor to the President? What a prestigious position. One that must have provided ample opportunities.

"Why didn't you just kill him?"

He laughs. It's kind of funny. It's also a touch sadistic. I don't judge. I'm the one who said it. "I was a younger man, stupid and scared, but if I could go back in time…" The words fade out. The floor shakes one last time and the red light stops flashing. Dr. Holden catches himself and abruptly straightens his tie, which didn't need to be straightened. "Those aren't comforting words to come from a doctor."

I shrug. I've heard worse.

"Come, we need to get you back to bed. You're never going to recover at this rate," he teases. We hurry though the doors and back down the hallway. The feelings of discomfort I had toward him have dissipated. It was his façade that made me nervous, but now that I know his story, his persona is far less threatening. Our mutual desire to murder President Snow does a lot to help us bond, too.

Dr. Holden drops me off in the quarantine room then shuffles off to who knows where. My silver gown and face mask are laid out on my bed. Everyone else is dressed in full quarantine garb. Wing is tucked into his own bed. I pull the gown over my head, position the face mask, and crawl under my blankets. We wait. The doors open and close multiple times. There's noise. Several monitors are beeping and the wheels of the beds are squeaking as people are moved. Papers are rustling and I just know someone is looking over my chart. I wonder who it says I am.

"I thought there was only supposed to be twelve," someone comments, though their voice is slightly muffled, presumably by a mask.

"These five were just beginning to show symptoms. I couldn't risk leaving them behind." Dr. Holden pleads our case. I wonder if I should cough or sneeze or something, but I'm a bad actress and I don't know what ailment I'm supposed to have, so I decide against it.

There's a clanging sound against the footrest as the chart is replaced. Something clicks, something beeps, and I'm moving very quickly. There's the dull sound wheels moving over carpeting, then the clean sound of linoleum. The wheels resound loudly when met with the grate of the exit ramp. There's cement. A gust of wind threatens to blow my blankets away. I hold tightly to them. Linoleum returns and there's nothing but that gentle rolling sound for quite some time. I'm assaulted with the scent of hospital: cleaning solutions, re-circulated air, and plastic gloves. Worst of all, the smell makes me think of home. Not Twelve or Thirteen in particular, but the tiny room in the hospital wing that I've shared with Peeta for the past month. I don't know which is worse, the ache of missing him or the fact that the smell reminds me of him.

The noise subsides and the light dims. I wait for some sort of signal.

"It's in your best interest to allow me sole care of these patients." It's Dr. Holden again. I hope our fake sickness is scary enough that these people won't take much convincing. "They're highly infectious, to Capitol residents especially, who have never been vaccinated for this disease." I nearly snort into my mask. _Nice touch, Doc._ "My team from Three will be able to handle it."

There are a few objections, but the voices fade away. It sounds like Dr. Holden is leading them outside the room. Best to limit the exposure to infection, naturally. I hear the shuffling of fabric and I wonder who's making all the noise, but stay hidden under the covers—that is, until someone punches me in the shoulder.

"Hey!" I shout as I throw the blanket off.

"Had to get you back, Catnip," Gale says. Apparently, the signal was to bruise my arm. Gale sneaks away before I can get a swipe at him. Madge's bed is next to mine, just like before. She's got her knees folded against her chest. I wish I could have seen how Gale signaled her.

The small room is empty of any hospital staff; it's also missing the entire team of spies. The hospital must not have been prepared for five additional patients—Dr. Holden 'forgot' to warn them—and they stuck us in another room. There aren't any windows, thankfully. If Holden can keep the staff out we won't have to worry about being discovered.

The guys already have their gowns off and are pulling hidden clothes out from under their mattresses. I lean over and check under mine. Sure enough, a pair of light blue trousers, a matching top, and a short jacket of a darker shade is hidden there. The material is thin, but I have a feeling it will be warm like the gowns. Oh, the wonders of the Capitol.

"Get changed," Wing instructs. "The faster we move, the better."

I quickly get the gown off; then realize, at the same time as Madge, that we're going to have to change in front of the boys. I've been in various states of undress in front of strangers, but not Gale, Wing, and Garrett. The guys are somehow oblivious to this and don't seem to notice our hesitation. I clear my throat obnoxiously. All three look up simultaneously. Garrett, a gentleman, and Gale, a guy who lived in a two-room house with girls, immediately get the picture and face the wall. Wing takes his sweet time, both in turning around and in putting on a shirt to cover his naked chest. It takes Gale less than a second to sock him in the arm. I assume there was more behind that single punch. I bite at my smirk.

"Ow!" Wing protests. He rubs the spot where the bruise will be as he turns around, taking a moment to give us a good view of his tattoo. So much for moving fast.

I glance at Madge, hoping she found some humor in the interaction, too. She's standing very still, gripping her blue top and staring at Gale's back. While Wing grants us a show, there is a very brief flash of the rippling permanent marks on Gale's back as he changes from one shirt to the other. Madge stands frozen for a few moments longer. Before I can say anything, something startles her back into reality and she quickly changes out of her clothes. Eventually, we're all in disguise, typical hospital staff uniforms. We take time to readjust our holsters, which are barely hidden by the jackets we're provided. Fortunately, our ankle holsters that contain our knives are hidden easily under the semi-loose pants. The guys each carry a white satchel, which would normally hold medical supplies, now they carry pieces of the device meant to knock the building down. Overall, we seem a little too plain, in my opinion. Our lack of green skin or pink hair will make us stand out, won't it? Just as we've gotten ourselves together, Dr. Holden walks though the doors. He spends a few seconds hitting buttons on the side console before he greets us.

"There's my team for the quarantine patients," he says teasingly. Oh. Now the uniforms make some sense, though I hope he doesn't expect us to actually do anything medical-related. We all gather together in a clump in the middle of the room.

"How is the exit plan going?" Garrett asks, breaking his usual code of silence. If he's concerned, than we all should be concerned.

"Everything is fine. Half have already taken their leave. The other half will leave within the hour." Dr. Holden is talking about the spies. Getting out of the hospital is very important. They don't want to be anywhere near this place. "You've got your directions, correct?" he asks the guys. They all nod. I'm at a complete loss.

"What directions?" I ask quickly. I feel stupid, but I have to ask.

"We're going to the basement level to hook up the device to strategic places that will destroy the foundation. The building will go down with as minimal firepower as possible," Wing explains. And I feel even more stupid that Wing knows so much more about what is going on than I do.

"You and Madge are going to go with Dr. Holden to level seventeen. That's where they've got Cresta," Gale adds.

_Oh sure, send me to pick up the crazy girl. Just because I happened to be a little out of it for a few months._

"We'll meet you on the rooftop hangar and we'll be on our way home in a couple hours," Wing says cheerfully. If only it could be so easy.

"How do we get Annie to the roof?" What if she's catatonic or manic or strapped to a bed? Not to mention how much security she must be under.

"The Doc will help you with that," he explains, or doesn't explain, as it were.

"Are you sure we should split up?" I hedge. Being together is dangerous because if one of us is discovered than all of us will be. However, being separated seems just as risky. We don't have any way to communicate with one another if something goes wrong. Everyone, even Wing, is able to drain their face of emotion and keep up a poker face. Everyone but me.

Gale places his hand under my elbow and tugs me closer to him. "Listen, we're here to do the job we were trained for. We'll be fine," he assures, but it's hard to believe him. It will only take one person who questions our presence for the entire mission to go to hell. I don't say anything though because I've brought down the energy too much already. Gale leans forward and places a light kiss on my hairline. It's a nice gesture, it feels friendly, but it's not the kiss I want. Gale can't help that. He lingers near my ear and whispers, but we're so close together everyone can hear him. "Don't hate me for saying this. We all want to bring Annie back, but Haymitch gave us explicit instructions about the mission. If it's too dangerous, get yourself out." He means to say, the Mockingjay is more important than Annie Cresta. She can be left behind.

I want to hate him. It's such a cruel thing to say. The last team risked their lives to save Peeta. I have to do the same. Gale knows that. "Same goes for you," I say as I stand up on my toes and wrap my arms around his neck. We say the words and we mean them, but it's a promise we don't expect the other to keep. We wouldn't have come if we weren't willing to give our lives. As bitter as I am, it's the truth.

The hug only lasts a few seconds. Gale sets me back on my feet. "Keep an eye on her for me, will you, Madge?" he requests.

I look over my shoulder. Madge appears the confident soldier once again, energized by the adrenaline and potential danger. "Of course," she replies, the first thing she's said all day actually. I don't like the insinuation that I need protection, but I ignore it because I'm glad Madge and Gale aren't squabbling for once. They stand in a silent staring contest of sorts—something I've seen them do in the past, usually when one is stuck without a comeback. This time, there are no smiles or spiteful remarks, although something in the air sparks between the blue and gray. It goes on for too long. Too long to be construed as a look shared between friends or whatever Gale and Madge are.

I'm desperate to know who will break the trance first. And it is disrupted, but it's by Wing. He yanks Madge's arm and pulls her against him. She's a bit thrown off by it. Gale stiffens considerably.

"In case I don't make it back, I meant what I said," he declares cryptically. I want to roll my eyes because he's being a tad melodramatic, and he's doing so in front of everyone, but his face is honest. At the very core Wing has always been honest. He wraps his hand around the back of Madge's neck. I think he's going to pull her in for a kiss, but instead he dips his finger under her collar, tugging on the chain of her necklace. Madge holds in a breath, and just before the ring can peek out from under collar, he releases it.

"It's time to go, kids," Garrett says wryly, because he is officially the only person here who isn't emotionally compromised, as far as I know.

Wing drops his hands. Madge stumbles back, a little dazed.

"I'll see you in a bit, Ace." Wing winks. Dr. Holden takes the liberty of punching in the code for the door and the guys have no choice but to leave. There's no official goodbye, but it's better that way. We'll be seeing each other in a couple hours, just as Wing said.

The doors snap closed. The room remains charged with the emotional interlude that just went on. Madge looks at the floor and plays with her fingers. I can't identify with her situation exactly, but I know the feeling of being pulled in two different directions and not having the opportunity to figure out what it all means. I gently place my hand on her shoulder. She looks up, her face a little red. She doesn't grin or nod, but she understands. As much as she is protecting me, I'm here for her.

"Ready?" Dr. Holden asks. He hits the buttons again. "Masks on."

I dig in the front pocket of my jacket to find a new mask there. I wrap the elastic part around my ears and remember the advice the Peacekeeper in Three gave me, _follow and don't talk_.

I keep up with Dr. Holden's steady pace, concentrating on not making eye contact with anyone, but taking in as much of the scene as possible. It's bustling with noise and lights and people. Everywhere there are people. The patient rooms are full. Empty beds are stacked in the hallways. I'm overwhelmed with the scent of disinfectant and my stomach is swimming, even though I haven't seen anything worth being squeamish about. As it turns out, my concerns about standing out are unnecessary. There are a few wild hairstyles and occasional unnatural skin colors, but generally everyone is dressed in the same blue uniform and everyone is wearing a mask. This isn't the kind of place for wild dress, and it may not be a concern in the Capitol lately.

I'm elated when we reach the long line of elevator doors. They open and close rapidly, practically spitting people out on the floor. I wait patiently next to Dr. Holden and hope I don't see anyone I know.

"Rafael Holden!" a woman squeals when the doors open in front of us. She's got bleach blonde spiral curls that bounce when she talks. Her skin is artificially tanned and her lips are hot pink. The white doctor's coat she wears is a stark contrast to the bimbo look she's going for. "I haven't seen you in weeks. Where have you been hiding?" Her voice reaches a pitch similar to that of a field mouse.

"Millicent, it's good to see you again," Dr. Holden greets with a perfect smile. I think about hopping onto the elevator before it zooms away, but going on without a guide would be a bad idea. I'd be lost in no time. "I've been on official business for the President," Dr. Holden clarifies.

_Among others._

"Impressive," she hums. And no one could mistake the way she quirks her eyebrow as anything but flirtatious.

I tap my foot anxiously. I don't like standing here without a purpose. At some point someone is going to ask me how I got my hairstyle to match Katniss Everdeen's so perfectly.

"You'll have to excuse me, Millicent, but I was on my way up, and you should be wearing a mask if you're going to be on this floor."

She reaches into a pocket and pulls out her own mask, waving it in the air. She suddenly stops and casts a glance at her fingernails, which are badly chipped and broken. She quickly puts her hand back in her pocket. "I should be getting back to work," she mutters, and even under her overly tan skin I can see the hint of a blush. She brushes past us without a goodbye. Dr. Holden gives her a wave she doesn't see. I gladly step into the elevator.

We're quiet as the elevator goes up. I want to ask Dr. Holden about the woman, if she's his friend, if she's a part of the rebellion somehow, if she can be saved. She looked like she was made of plastic, but one never can tell who's a spy. I don't get a chance because the elevator is impossibly fast and we reach the seventeenth floor in mere seconds.

This floor is an absolute contrast to the ward we just left, which must have been an infectious disease floor. I notice only a few elevator doors on this level. It isn't full of people, sick or otherwise. The lobby we enter is enormous, painted varying shades of green with a huge bay of windows and a simulated waterfall. The couches strewn about look plush and soft and the sound of the ocean is being pumped through the speakers. Beyond the lobby is a long corridor of doors. Our destination becomes plainly obvious when one door has a pair of Peacekeepers standing guard. I instinctively tighten my jacket to conceal my weapon.

"Good afternoon, gentlemen," Dr. Holden says in a voice so serene it matches the décor. "My associates and I would like to speak with Miss Cresta."

I expect the Peacekeepers to tell him to shove off, but when Dr. Holden presents them with some form of identification, one of them pushes a code on a side panel, and the door unlocks. Dr. Holden must be a master at forging documents. Or maybe they're real. Being a physician to Snow must come with some perks.

The door closes behind us. We're met with silence and a room with a stunning view. The furniture is soft and rounded corners and subtle neutrals. The air is somehow sweeter. Standing in the sunlight is a woman of medium height, thin build, her hair down to her waist, wearing a casual pair of pants and a baggy sweater. Her cheeks are bright and there's a small smile on her lips when she sees us.

She doesn't look…crazy.

* * *

A/N: A silver parachute for anyone who understands the Millicent reference.


	12. Collapse

A/N: Scars won an award. My first ever win. Best Overall Multichapter Fic and runner up Best Third Book in the Summer 2010 The Hunger Games Fic Awards. Thank you to the judges for the recognition.

I'm in a race to see if I can get this thing done before MJ. Wish me luck.

Thank you Medea Smyke for pre-reading.

**Collapse **

The hall is empty and dim. The "day time" lights haven't kicked on yet. The light fixtures don't change; the level of illumination varies during different parts of the day. It's supposed to help stimulate people's circadian rhythms or something, though I don't see how any of the people born here could have developed a circadian rhythm in the first place.

I find the room I've been banned from. I enter and my wheelchair squeaks when I stop rolling.

"What do you think you're doing here?" Haymitch sounds like he's in a bad mood. So, not so different from the everyday. I'm surprised to see him here early, but it's possible he hasn't been to bed yet.

"There's a meeting today," I reply, telling him something he already knows. Haymitch looks me over once. Twice. I comb at my bed head of hair. There isn't anything I can do about the pajamas. I should have changed. Probably should have showered. But if I had taken the time to do those things I would have been late. I couldn't ask Shell or Mrs. Everdeen to help me because they would have told me not to come, and I don't need additional lectures.

"Who told you that?" Haymitch asks gruffly as he situates some papers on the conference table.

"What does it matter?" I shrug.

"I'd like to know who your spies are."

I laugh. He doesn't. His instincts are correct, but I laugh because he hasn't guessed yet. And why would he? My spy is too sweet to be a spy. "You're paranoid, Haymitch." I push myself up to the large metal table, which is decorated with a multitude of rusty drink rings. The arduous task of getting myself from the hospital wing to the conference room will expend most of my energy for the day, but this is my only planned activity today, so it doesn't really matter.

Haymitch sits on a creaking folding chair at the head of the table. He reaches into the interior pocket of his jacket and removes a silver flask smudged with fingerprints. He slowly unscrews the cap. "You shouldn't be here," he gripes.

I thought he quit drinking. Haymitch takes a quick pull from the flask. I thought wrong.

I prop my elbows on the armrests of my chair and sit up a little straighter. I try to appear more alert and more…healthy, somehow. I definitely should have taken a shower. He'd be less inclined to kick me out if I looked a little better. "Katniss is out there," I say lowly because admitting it is just as difficult as accepting it. I deserve to have a seat here, but Haymitch looks unconvinced. Maybe I should say my _wife _instead? It could have more dramatic effect. I decide against it. Like I said before, I can do without lectures.

"Exactly," Haymitch says. He takes one more swig. His eyes pinch shut. Must be nasty stuff. He replaces the cap and works on getting it back into its home in his jacket. "And after that episode of yours, this is the last place you want to be."

_That episode of yours. The episode in the dining hall. _Everyone is making that into something it's not. It wasn't a big deal…it was just…it was nothing. I'll be fine. This is Katniss we're talking about. When it comes to her, I can survive anything. I've proven that several times. "I can take it," I declare confidently.

A laugh coupled with a cough sputters from Haymitch's mouth. He scratches at the fair bit of scruff on his neck. "Yeah, because you took what Finnick had to say _so_ well," he says with his typical sarcasm.

I hate Haymitch. I decide in this moment that I hate him. I know it's not just Haymitch that sent Katniss there. It was Finnick and Annie and Plutarch and Gale and a million people from the districts who think they know her, when they don't. It's not just Haymitch. He likes Katniss, despite how unfriendly they act toward one another. He didn't want to send her into so much danger. But he's the one who's here and he's the one I hate.

I'm glad when someone new crosses the threshold. "Peeta, my boy! I didn't know you were joining us," Plutarch greets as he enters the dimly lit room. He gives a genial pat to my shoulder. He's too cheery for this early in the morning. Despite Plutarch's jovial demeanor, I see him cast an inquisitive glance in Haymitch's direction.

"I didn't invite him," Haymitch says defensively.

Plutarch loses the look and finds his seat next to Haymitch. He starts laying out some papers of his own, which are in better condition than Haymitch's. "How are you feeling, young man?" he inquires, sounding genuinely concerned. Although, I could do without the _my boy_ and _young man_. I don't know whose father he's trying to sound like, but it's not mine. However, I recognize that he's trying to be nice, which is preferable to Haymitch's surly attitude.

I try to sound like Plutarch. "Great. I'm feeling great," I lie. Haymitch rolls his eyes. Truth be told, I feel the same as I have the last few days, like garbage. I got a terrible night's sleep on top of it because I had to get up to take a piss about five times. After the third time, I pulled my mattress onto the floor and slept next to the bathroom door.

Haymitch and Plutarch choose to ignore me and talk quietly amongst themselves. When the hour hand reaches the six on the clock the lights flicker and brighten a hedge. More people begin to shuffle in with cups of coffee from the dining hall. They're actually late for the meeting but the dining hall doesn't start serving until six, consequently the meeting begins at ten after. A man and a woman from the Capitol walk in, no one I know personally, but their experience in the Capitol provides a lot of insight. High ranking officials of Thirteen enter with coffee and donuts in hand. They don't do much to help with planning. They're more interested in knowing how Thirteen is going to be affected by the actions of the resistance. It's not like they're prejudiced like the nurse from the hospital wing, but they have concerns. The district is running low on medical supplies, food, and places to put people. One of the army trainers jogs in without any drink or food. He's got sweat running down his face. His morning starts long before six. I've yet to go down to the training facility, but I recognize him by the scar over his eye. It looks how I imagined it when Gale described it. Finnick is here. He's the only one who isn't surprised by my presence. But they all know why I'm here. They know.

"Let's get on with it," Haymitch mutters when everyone has found a place to sit. He takes a coffee cup from one of the officials from Thirteen and downs a big gulp. The official frowns. The coffee wasn't being offered to Haymitch.

Plutarch stands up and everyone settles down immediately. The man has always garnered a level of respect no one else seems to hold, in spite of his involvement in planning the Games. Plutarch is a decent speaker; he's very straight and to the point. I wouldn't describe him as charismatic necessarily. His respect has been earned. I figure he's been involved in the rebellion for a long time. A simple clearing of his throat and the meeting is in session. "Based on the timeframe we set up, the team should be through District Three and arrived at the Capitol hospital."

"Evidence?" a woman from the Capitol interrupts.

"We've had zero contact from Three in the last two days," Plutarch replies.

"Which means?" the same woman asks, sounding annoyed. Meetings shouldn't be in the morning. Everyone is too irritable. It would probably be better if we had some actual sunlight.

Haymitch sits forward over the table and sneers at the woman. "That means every person we were in contact with is in the Capitol."

The woman narrows her eyes at Haymitch. He does the same. It's equivalent to watching a pair of school kids stick their tongues out at each other.

"Exactly," Plutarch cuts in eloquently. "Any transmissions going in or out of the Capitol have been put on hold until the mission is complete. It's in everyone's best interest, especially for the team that is in place."

_The team. _I hate the way he says it. Impersonal. Distant. Not like it's my wife he's talking about, or Finnick's girlfriend, or our close friends. They're just a team of soldiers. Expendable.

"We have every reason to believe movement within the Capitol has been successful, even that the device has been put into place," Plutarch explains.

My chest fills up with reluctant hope. I don't want it to be that way. I want it all to be certain. There's a twisting pain in my stomach each time I consider she might not come back, and the speculative tone of Plutarch's words does not help.

"This is all good news," Plutarch says. Then his shoulders dip and he has to clear his throat again. "However, there has been a complication."

The air in the room thins out. My chest constricts.

"Explain," the army trainer demands in a clipped tone.

Plutarch lets the challenging tone roll off his back. This is why Plutarch runs meetings and not Haymitch. Right now, Haymitch's fingers are flexing around the cup of coffee he stole. He's either trying to avoid an outburst or trying to ignore the pull of his flask. Plutarch can contain his emotions. "There was a small riot in Two yesterday."

"Was that us?" someone questions. I don't notice who because I keep my eyes on Haymitch. He takes another big gulp of the coffee. He pinches his eyes shut like he did with the flask, but I'm thinking it's because he burned his mouth.

"No. It was independent of us. I'm afraid the people there are getting scared by all the Peacekeepers and increased security. The situation couldn't be contained," Plutarch says. He slides a piece of paper into the center of the table. It's a photo of a mass of people running around the exterior of a large building—a factory of some kind. Windows are broken, a fire is being lit. A Peacekeeper is on the ground, while an entire group of Peacekeepers stands by, taking aim upon the crowd.

"And when people get scared you end up with a crater instead of a district," the rude woman from the Capitol scoffs. The officials from Thirteen flinch and cast her a hard look. The officials from Thirteen are older, at least in their fifties, but not old enough to have actually lived in the original Thirteen, and still, they're offended. Shell told me how the people of Thirteen consider their predecessors heroes, so they're easily ruffled by the comment. I share in their indignation. My family now lies in one of those craters. The woman notices and has the decency to look contrite. "Sorry," she mumbles.

Plutarch continues like nothing has been said. "It disrupted production in the factories and all hovercrafts were halted for a period of twenty-four hours."

"What does that have to do with the team?" Finnick pipes in. I'm wondering the same thing.

"The hovercraft that we arranged to collect them is coming in from Two. It departed about six hours later than originally planned. Their pick-up is going to be delayed."

It all clicks together. The reason for an emergency meeting. Why Haymitch looks like he's about to choke the coffee mug to death. Why he needs a much stronger drink. They have no way out. _Katniss_ has no way out.

"Do they know?" I question, my voice cracks with anxiety. People turn their eyes toward me and I don't care if they see the panic.

Plutarch straightens his shoulders. He addresses the room, not me. "No." And Plutarch isn't lying. He's not like Haymitch. He doesn't lie to us.

"We have to warn them." I am not lying either.

"Peeta," Plutarch sighs. He anticipated this when he saw me in the room. He should have done more to get me to leave if he didn't want to deal with me. "We can't risk it. Snow is tapping the lines in the Capitol. He keeps track of transmissions going in and going out."

"And if he sees transmissions coming from this part of the country, that's going to be a big clue as to where the rebellion is hiding," Haymitch adds.

Everything is explained and tied up with a nice bow. Everyone understands and no one disagrees. They stare at their cups and their hands and I hate them. I hate them because they do nothing. They say nothing. They sit here and make plans and they don't put themselves in danger. They don't even fight for their Mockingjay.

I find a hole in their logic. I'm the only one who fights. "By the time Snow figures out where the call is coming from the team will have found another way out and the hospital will be gone."

Finnick sits up, looking much stronger than me. His hair is a mess and his eyes are bruised, and he still looks stronger than me. "He has a point," he cuts in. I'm pleased someone will help me in this fight.

Haymitch shakes his head. "Or Snow could intercept the message and take out the team or a district or both," he grumbles. He finally concedes to the bottle in his pocket, leaving the coffee cup behind. He takes a swig from the flask. No one questions him.

"Or the hospital could blow up with them still in it!" I shout.

"The bomb isn't on a goddamn timer," Haymitch hisses on account of the booze. "They control when it detonates."

"But it's going to detonate no matter what. Isn't it?" I ask breathlessly. The room is quiet, yet buzzes with energy. Half my body is leaning over the table. I swallow hard because my breath is coming too fast. This isn't the first time I've fought with Haymitch. Before the Quell I made him swear to protect Katniss. I will hold him to that promise with everything I am, even if everything I am is weak and sick. "Call them," I order in between my labored breaths.

Haymitch throws back another shot. Plutarch takes over for him. "Peeta, we can't do that."

"They need to know what's happening," I insist.

"They're smart enough to figure it out," Haymitch says as he wipes his lips with the back of his hand.

"They could be standing on the roof waiting for a flight that's not going to come."

"They have other options. They can hide in the city if they have to."

No. That suggestion is unacceptable. The Capitol is the most dangerous place Katniss can be. "They'll have no way of getting back here."

"They can hijack a hovercraft. That's why we sent two pilots who can fly anything and soldiers with remarkable aim." Again, the team is referred to like simple soldiers when they're so much more than that, and not just to me. Garrett and Wing are excellent pilots. They are also good men. Garrett and Haymitch are close friends, too. I've seen them in the dining hall together, laughing. Madge and Gale are more than good shots. Madge is incredibly brave and kind. Every guy in the place is in love with her. Gale has his brothers, sister, and mother to come home to. He is my friend. And Katniss. She is my wife.

I rub my face because tears of anger, worry, and anguish burn my eyes. I swallow at the lump. My chest is too tight. I can't catch my breath. "So you plan on doing nothing?"

I expect an apology, an admission of grief. If not from Haymitch, then from Plutarch. I get nothing but silence. I drop my hand away from my face. I don't care if they see me cry or if they feel guilty. They should.

Haymitch sniffs, and then coughs. The sound of him screwing the metal cap back onto the flask is extraordinarily loud. "This is where we make the hard decisions, Peeta."

Somewhere within the tight chest, sore muscles, the exhaustion, and the gnawing at my gut I find the strength to stand, though I'm holding myself up with the assistance of the table. "Screw you, Haymitch!"

"Go back bed. I told you, you shouldn't be here."

But I'm too angry to listen. Every person here can stand and walk and _fight_. Except me. I'm trapped in the hospital wing, useless and terrified. Yet they would dare resign to doing _nothing_? It's wrong. "You sit here and make all your plans and strategies, but you don't do anything. You hide while she's out there risking her life."

Everyone jumps when Haymitch slams his fist on the table. "I've been risking my life for twenty-five years."

"And while drowning in booze and self-hatred," I snap.

"And what do you do, Peeta?"

My elbow buckles, but I'm able to straighten up again. Normally, I would say he is right. I'm too sick to do anything, but for the first time since Katniss told me she was leaving, I believe there is a reason I was left behind. She needs me to fight for her _here_.

"Knock it off, Haymitch. He's been through hell," Finnick says in my defense. Good man. I don't lump him with the rest of the cowards. If Finnick could be out there, he would.

"I know that. Which is why I don't understand why he's here."

"That is enough, Haymitch," Plutarch intercedes, but it's too late. Haymitch has been through hell, too. Like he said, twenty-five years of it. His anger is coming from a thousand different places. My disrespect is simply the most recent.

"No. He's being an ass. I don't care how sick he is, it needs to be addressed." Haymitch stands up without a waver; the alcohol ironically steadies him. He slowly begins to walk around the long table toward me. Plutarch sinks into his chair and covers his eyes, giving up any control he might have had.

"Did you notice how I never went fishing in your head? Even though there might be something in your lost memories we could use, I didn't go looking," Haymitch says.

_Lectures. Goddamn lectures. _

"And it wasn't because our sweetheart threatened me with her scowl either," he mutters as he nears me. Even though the name was never meant as a term of endearment, he doesn't deserve to call her that.

My arms are burning and leaning onto my prosthetic is causing increasing pressure to my hip. It hurts, but I can take this kind of hurt. It's the stirring in my mind that Haymitch is causing that is painful. It brings light to the hazy memories that recently were nothing but a black hole.

"The nightmares aren't enough for you?" Haymitch asks scornfully. "You want to put yourself through more? There's plenty more. The stories I could tell you."

I didn't know it would be that way the day in the dining hall with Finnick. I thought it would be like a story I would feel no attachment to. Even though Finnick told the story with limited emotion—like he was reading a report—the memories erupted in my mind as I relived it, as I _felt_ it happening to me. The burning of my skin, the pills shoved down my throat, the darkness, and the silence. I even heard my helpless pleas that never received a response. It was more terrifying than any nightmare.

"The nights you spent screaming as they induced hallucinations? Do you want to hear about that?"

And I don't have to hear the story, because I can see it. The thick, dark jungle is as clear as ever. I trip over roots and vines, but don't stop. Katniss would complain my steps are too loud. I'll give myself away with my heavy breathing anyway. I can't stop. I can hear her. I run and run, but her voice is still far away.

I see tears hit the surface of the table and realize they must be mine. I wonder if they will leave a mark. The only reason I'm still standing is because my arms have seized up.

"How about when they cut off your oxygen and demanded information? Even after you told them nothing."

He's shouting in my ear, but it sounds muffled. My head lulls sideways. I have no air. My lungs constrict and my body tries to breathe, but it's pointless. There is no air left in the room. The ventilation is broken.

"Haymitch, stop!"

"Enough! This isn't helping anything."

There's more shouting, but it's impossible to decipher. Something is trying to get out of my stomach, but my stomach is empty. The tingling in my arms has stopped. There is a cold pressure against my back. Blurry eyes see nothing. Nothing. Not even her.

* * *

"What the hell were you thinking?"

There is darkness. My eyes are closed. I'm strangely warm, maybe too warm. There's more weight on me than usual. It's a soft weight.

"He badgered me on."

"_He _is eighteen years old and _sick_."

"He never should have been down there."

Who is talking? Who is shouting? It's nearby. I'm on my side. The shouting is over my shoulder. There is a softness squeezing my hand.

"What you did was inexcusable. And _you_. How could you let this go on this long?"

"He didn't tell us he wasn't eating." This voice is harsh, unrepentant.

My stomach rolls with the thought of food.

"And the oversleeping and the chills?"

"I thought he was just worried about Katniss." This voice is weaker, smaller, scared.

I have been worried. I've been so afraid, but her fear is for something else.

"It should have been addressed weeks ago." This voice is enraged.

It takes all my strength to concentrate on opening my eyes. There are several blankets covering me. More than usual. I see my own hand being held between two much smaller hands. Thin fingers. I see a pair of shiny blue eyes looking at the shouting over my shoulder. She does not see me peering at her.

"We don't have the facilities to deal with it anyway. Not when it's this severe. It's not like we have a surgeon on staff."

I am confused. I want to say something, but I don't know where to begin. Shiny blue eyes are cast down. They open wide when they see me.

"Mom! He's awake," the girl says to her mother. Not girl. Prim. My little spy.

Footsteps are moving fast and Mrs. Everdeen's face is suddenly there, but she's not enraged. She smiles at me and runs her healing hand through my hair. "Hi, sweetheart," she says above a whisper. That's the pet name Haymitch always uses. It sounds so different when she says it.

"What happened?" I croak, trying to remember how I got here. There was shouting and then…

Mrs. Everdeen's lovely face crumples. "You…you fainted," she replies.

Fainted? That's all I need. I won't be leaving this bed any time soon. I lick my dry lips and swallow at my dry throat. "Why?"

Her hand scratches my head. "It doesn't matter," she coos. "You rest. We're going to get you better. I promise, sweetheart." There's that name again.

I use the depleted remnants of my strength to turn over because I'm still confused and I doubt Mrs. Everdeen is going to explain. My room is crowded with people. The nurse. She appears offended—like someone who has just been scolded. Shell holds her hand over her mouth, but her puffy, red eyes say enough. Haymitch is leaning against the doorframe. His hand is at the inside pocket of his jacket, either putting the drink away or about to take it out. Echoes of our shouting match float around in my head, but that isn't the argument I'm trying to put together.

Chills…fatigue…not eating…a surgeon? I don't know what it means, but I know why they were arguing. Why the shiny eyes.

I look for those eyes. "Prim, will you get me some paper please?"


	13. Shock

A/N: Since a few people have asked, let me assure everyone I am going to continue _My First Date with Katniss Everdeen_. It's been put on the back burner as _Scars_ my priority right now. Thank you for your patience.

And if you're looking for some more reading to hold you over until MJ check out Medea Smyke's new collab, _Peeta's Honeymoon Survival Kit_. It's genius.

And thank you to Medea Smyke for beta. Consider her a part of the mission to the Capitol.

**Shock**

The small smile on the Annie's face morphs into an elated grin, but still, there's a sense of reservation about her. "Rafe," she murmurs as her arms open slightly. Dr. Holden takes her in a quiet embrace while Madge and I stand near the door, glancing back at one another to keep from staring.

Dr. Holden holds Annie's chin between his thumb and forefinger, scanning over her face like an observant doctor. However, there's something intimate about their reunion and I feel rude watching it unfold before me. "Hello, my lovely girl. I'm so glad to see you," he says in a greeting similar to the one he used when running into the bleached out female doctor on the previous floor, but the tone couldn't be more different. He speaks to Annie like he's seeing family—like a father and daughter. The way he touches her face and the way she's smiling at him, suggests a deep familiarity between the pair.

"I see the air in District Three has not aged you." She briefly skims her fingertips over a spot under his glasses at the corner of his right eye—a place where someone his age would normally have a grouping of laugh lines. He has none. It must be a part of his celebrity that he undergoes the procedures he invented, since his personal interests have nothing to do with vanity. I wonder if he would be offended if I asked him his actual age.

"It would take much more than air," he chuckles. He brushes the hair away from her face and touches her neck. This motion is purely clinical. The tone of his voice follows suit, turning serious. "What did they give you?"

The smile leaves Annie's face. "Something different from last time. Something orange."

"Any sedatives?"

She shakes her head sadly, looking down at her hands and picking at the lint on her loose-fitting sweater. "No. The orange ones keep me even enough."

Dr. Holden lifts up her face again. The pleasant warmth of his voice returns. "Well, it's preferable to the alternative, dear girl."

I look over at Madge, her shoulder bobs in my direction. Clearly, neither of us has any idea what this conversation is about. I'm not sure what she means by "something orange", and I'm scared to find out what the "alternative" is.

Dr. Holden faces Madge and me, finally giving notice to the fact that there are others in the room. He puts an arm behind Annie's back and gently pushes her toward us. "Let me introduce you to some friends of mine." Madge and I lift our masks away. I immediately see Annie eyes narrow slightly at me, not in anger, she's confused. She recognizes me, but the outfit throws her off. To the people who have only seen me on television, I'm either wearing fantastical costumes or covered in dirt and blood. Thoughts are ticking away inside her head as she attempts to place where she's seen me. "Annie Cresta, this is Madge Undersee, and Katniss Everdeen."

Annie barely glances at Madge. Her dark green eyes lock on mine and I find it impossible to look away, even though I desperately want to. Unlike the simple, curious looks from the spies on the hovercraft, her gaze seizes me. It's not crazed or wild, as her reputation would allude. Her expression is oddly vacant. Her eyes are deep voids that have seen too much pain for someone so young, and I fear if I stare too long I'll fall into the darkness that festers behind her eyes.

"Kat…?" she whispers the single syllable. She looks at Dr. Holden without blinking, and for some reason, it's more disconcerting than if she screamed and went into hysterics. "What is this?" she questions in a rush.

"Relax, dear girl. We're here to get you out," Dr. Holden replies carefully.

Again, she doesn't blink. "Out?"

"You're going to District Thirteen. That is where these young ladies came from. It's where the rebellion is hiding."

I wait for her to ask a million questions. She just learned there is an actual organized rebellion, District 13 is a functioning secret hideout, and she's going to be broken out of her prison momentarily. It's a lot of information for anyone to absorb and I'm glad Dr. Holden is here because I don't know how much of that information she can take. However, she says nothing, not at first. She looks at me once more, but thankfully, she quickly averts her eyes. She looks to the windows instead. "Katniss…," she whispers to herself. She silently walks away from the group and pauses in front of the windows, her fingers trail over a huge pane of glass in meaningless circles.

I look to Dr. Holden for some kind of explanation. Annie's reaction is strange, and I wonder if the orange things the Capitol doctors gave her did something to her head. Dr. Holden holds a finger to his lips indicating the need for silence. We all observe Annie, who's still touching the glass. Does she think we're going to bust through the window? That's seventeen floors down. It makes me shudder to think she's contemplated it before.

I'm comforted somewhat when Annie finally blinks against the bright sunlight. She keeps her fingers moving on the glass, and without any emotion at all, she finally speaks. "Finnick?"

Perhaps we should have started off with this news. She might not be so shell shocked right now. "He's alive," I answer, because that's the most important piece of truth; however, she doesn't react, not that I can see. Her fingers pause, but there's nothing on her face. I add more. She hasn't asked, but if I were her I would want to know more. "He's okay. He misses you." His missing of Annie manifests itself in his overall appalling appearance lately, but I don't mention that. No need to make her worry.

"Finnick…," Annie repeats. She turns around, leaning her back to the glass, and hugging her skinny arms around her middle. I anticipate tears or joy or _something_. Her voice settles to flat indifference; her expression apathetic to the news about her boyfriend.

"What is it, dear girl?" Dr. Holden asks sympathetically.

Annie releases a dramatic sigh, leaning her head back till it _thunks_ against the glass. "For once, I'd like to actually feel something. I _should_ feel something…but there's…" She waves her hand wistfully through the air. "Everything is just…empty," she laments.

"That won't last," Dr. Holden encourages. "It will be like going home. I promise."

Annie takes interest in the plush carpeting. I take the opportunity to yank Dr. Holden closer to Madge and me and get some quick answers. "What's going on with her?" I ask in a whisper, though I'm certain Annie will hear me. We don't have time for good manners right now. If we're going to get Annie out of here we need to know what we're dealing with.

"Annie is a very special girl," Dr. Holden replies. "I've known her a long time. I treated her after her Games." That explains their delight to see one another again, but he's evading the more important question.

"He was also the one to convince the rest of the physicians to take me off the cocktail they had me on," Annie says from her spot by the window. A _cocktail_? Not the kind one would find at a Capitol party. She means a cocktail of medications. Then again, that might be something one _would_ find at a Capitol party.

"Why so many?" I ask the doctor, but Annie answers.

"I went crazy," she deadpans, and by tone of absolute frankness in her voice, I'm inclined to believe her. Her reputation may have something to do with it, too. I jump when Dr. Holden lets out a hearty laugh.

"You're very funny when you're doped up, Annie," he tells her. The corner of her mouth lifts, but no response otherwise. He turns back to Madge and me. "I assume you both have had nightmares at some point."

I come very close to laughing at his serious question. Not because my nightmares are amusing. This whole trip has been a test of my nerves and perhaps I'm the one who's going into hysterics. Madge is quiet though, and my laughter sticks in my throat. Madge knows nightmares, too. Her nightmares don't stem from the Games like mine do. Hers are about the bombing in Twelve and the terrified screams she heard while escaping from the district. The heartbroken edge to Madge's features tells me those images and sounds are passing through her mind at this very moment. It's not a good place for her head, so I quickly nod in answer to Dr. Holden's question.

"Annie does as well, only her nightmares happen while she's awake. Certain events, sounds, or images trigger flashbacks. It was especially bad immediately following the Games." Dr. Holden doesn't expand on what _especially bad _means, but if it's enough for the Capitol to put her on a plethora of medications and label her as crazy, then it must be debilitating. I've had experiences with my memories out of the context of my nightmares—like when I see Prim and think of Rue, but I've been able to pull myself out of the memories. Annie is stuck inside the Games.

"It wasn't good for the Capitol's image," Dr. Holden continues, "so they put her on a multitude of medications which staved off the flashbacks. Unfortunately they had a lot of side effects."

"Side effects?" Annie laughs humorlessly. She crosses the room and plunks down on a plush tan sofa. "I was practically a vegetable. I barely remember anything that happened on my victory tour."

I can empathize with Annie. There are parts of the time Peeta and I were apart that are a blur to me, and I wasn't even on medication. However, I find myself saying a silent prayer of thanks that Peeta doesn't remember what happened to him here. Our memories from the Games are enough to deal with. I want us to pretend our time apart didn't happen. "I understand," I nod.

"They also level off her emotions so she doesn't suffer any anxiety," Dr. Holden mentions.

"It also prevents me from feeling happy or sad or…anything really," Annie admits indifferently as she goes back to picking at her sweater. This explains Annie's odd reaction to the news about the escape plan and the status of her boyfriend. The medications keep her from getting upset, but they also prevent her from feeling anything at all, even excitement at the prospect of seeing Finnick. I wonder if the pills have gone so far as to affect how she feels about him.

"When she's at home with a routine and with Mr. Odair, she does much better. She doesn't need the medications."

"So, this is the worst possible place she could be," Madge comments. Annie must be surrounded by triggers. The only thing keeping her from constantly suffering flashbacks is the medications that suck the life out of her.

"Have you had any episodes while you've been here?" Dr. Holden asks Annie.

She juts up her arm and lifts the sleeve of her sweater up to her shoulder. There's a pattern of dark purple bruises scattered on the inside of her elbow. "When they tried to sedate me when I first got here," she says flatly. She lifts up the hem of her top revealing a similar coloring on her ribs. "They had to hold me down when they started asking me about the explosion during the Quell."

My insides roll. I want to tell her to stop. This is coming too close to what they did to Peeta and it makes me sick. Good thing I'm in a hospital, right?

Once again, she folds down the edge of her linen pants. The marks on her hips are green. They're the most recent. "When they asked me where Finnick was," she explains the bruises. "After that they stopped asking and I stopped seeing…" she falters, eyes glazing over slightly. She shakes her head of something intangible. "That's when they started giving me the orange ones."

Dr. Holden groans and sits down next to her. He tenderly pushes her hair behind her ears. She doesn't appear comforted, but then again, she was lifeless to begin with. "I'm sorry," he murmurs.

If it wasn't already difficult enough getting ourselves out of here alive, now we have to factor in the possibility Annie might have a flashback or an anxiety attack. It's going to be near impossible. Of course, I've always been the pessimistic type.

"When are we leaving?" Annie asks suddenly.

Dr. Holden has to answer because I don't know what the plan is. Everything is given to me in cryptic pieces. For my protection, no doubt. I cannot wait for this to be over.

"We need to give the team some time. With any luck, a couple hours."

"How are we going to get Annie out of here?" I ask, though I feel foolish asking, and it probably doesn't give Annie much confidence in my abilities.

"My clearance should get us to the landing bay easily. A hovercraft will be waiting as escort."

Well, that isn't much of a plan, not that I want to be picking off Peacekeepers on our way to the landing bay, but it all sounds so simple. It also seems nearly unnecessary that we came at all. "It all sounds so easy," I say skeptically.

"It will be easy."

* * *

There's a loud, fast knocking at the door. The room has been basically silent for the past hour, so it makes everyone jump, except Annie. She sits very still in her seat with her legs tucked underneath her. The medicine keeps her calm in this stressful setting. Madge and I slip on our masks and get up from the couch where we were resting. When all is hidden away, Dr. Holden goes to the door, presses a few buttons, and it slips open. The same Peacekeepers from before are standing at guard, only now there's an additional person, who stands taller than both of them, being gripped by the arm.

"Does this kid belong to you?" a Peacekeeper, the one with red hair that curls out of the edge of his helmet, sneers.

I sneak up on my toes so I can see around Dr. Holden. I can't see the man's face, but I can see a head of unkempt black hair that could only belong to Gale. We should have cut his hair in addition to making him shave. Long hair is a style of the lower districts.

Dr. Holden does well under the eyes of the Peacekeepers and only appears miffed by the way they're handling Gale. "Yes, of course. He has proper identification, does he not?" Dr. Holden asks rhetorically. Gale jerks his arm away and grunts at the Peacekeepers. _Don't push it, Gale._

"We never can be too careful. How much longer are you going to be?" the other Peacekeeper, who's the shorter of the pair and a smidge overweight, inquires.

Dr. Holden stands up straighter, taking great offense to the question. "I was away for several weeks attending to official business for the President. I have been a part of Miss Cresta's case for several years and this is my first evaluation of her since returning to the Capitol. It will take some time." Dr. Holden is a phenomenal actor, or liar, as it were. He finished his evaluation of Annie within the first ten minutes of entering the room and we've been sitting around since.

The Peacekeeper waves his hand in front of Dr. Holden, indicating for him to settle down. "I can save you some time and tell you she doesn't do much of anything. She just stares out the window all day," he says, giving no regard to Annie's feelings. She can't respond to them anyway, unfortunately.

Dr. Holden, on the other hand, is visibly affronted by the comment, and he's not acting. He stands aside so Gale can pass through the door. "Yes, well. Thank you for your observation," he grounds out. "But I will be able to conclude my work without further interruptions." He presses the button to close the door before anything else can be said.

I scurry across the room and throw my arms around Gale's chest, as if we've been apart for years instead of mere minutes. Gale squeezes me for a second, but forces me to step back. My behavior is inappropriate for a mission, but I don't care. He could have been killed for all I know while he was setting up the device. I'm going to appreciate every moment I have with my friends. "Please tell me we're leaving soon," I whine at him. Very professional of me.

"Almost everything is set up below. We're meeting Wing and Garrett in an hour in the landing bay." _Another_ hour. It feels like a significant amount, but I try to convince myself it's just a short time. Then we'll be on our way home.

"It won't take us long to get up there," Dr. Holden cuts in. "And we don't want to be standing in the landing bay for a prolonged period of time. It will be conspicuous. We should stay here awhile longer."

"Won't that be conspicuous?" Madge questions. At some point she came to stand beside me. I didn't notice, but maybe Gale did. Maybe that's why he let go so quickly? "The guards are getting anxious," she adds.

"No Peacekeeper has more authority in this hospital than I do. It will be fine," Dr. Holden assures us, but he's so good at acting. It's difficult to interpret if he's telling the truth. He settles himself next to Annie, trying to illustrate by example that we have some waiting left to do and should just relax. I feel anything but relaxed, as do Gale and Madge. I yank my mask away because I suddenly feel tightly constrained by the elastic bands around my ears.

"How did things go?" Madge asks Gale calmly. She removes her mask carefully, not like the item is choking her, which is how I felt about it.

"Fine. I was more of a look-out than anything else, and the basement level was empty. But even when we walked through the hallways no one paid us much attention. Everyone is focused on their jobs," Gale describes.

I'm unsure how to respond. There's relief of course that Gale, Garrett, and Wing are all safe. There's also a sharp twinge in my stomach that combines with the relief unpleasantly. Nerves about leaving safely. Nerves about succeeding and what that will mean for all the smart, caring people who are, like Gale said, merely focusing on their jobs. There must be more people like Dr. Holden—people worth saving.

"Has anyone else been warned?" I gasp in Dr. Holden's direction.

He looks down at his lap and plays with his tie a little bit. "There are some people who know not to come to work today," he says quietly. Annie takes his hands and gives it a squeeze. She may not feel emotions, but she can recognize them in others.

"But not many?"

"Not enough," Dr. Holden says into his chest. As much as I want to tell him to change that, to tell him to go warn every person he knows to be a healer, I can't. Simply bringing up the question has weighed the optimistic Dr. Holden down immensely. This has evidently been on his mind for some time. He's already enduring the guilt that comes with accomplishing this task, but he's made his decision. The most important question may be: how are we expected to live with it? There's no answer for that. There was no answer after the Games and there's no answer now.

* * *

Time does not move fast enough for me. An hour is eternity.

Annie and Dr. Holden have spent the entire time we've been waiting speaking softly on the sofa. She tells him what the doctors have done with her in his absence. He informs her of different things she'll need to do once she gets to Thirteen in terms of her health. There is a nasty period of withdrawal when going off the medication, something I know all too well. She's unfazed by it. Apparently, she's been through it before.

Gale and Madge sit at opposite ends of another extra long couch. About every four minutes Gale gets up and does a couple laps around the room. Madge watches him pace, but says nothing.

I understand why Annie spends her days staring out the window. It might be because she's heavily medicated, but when you're alone for hour upon hour, in the quiet, afraid for your life and the lives of those you love, watching the sun move across the sky provides a distinct calm. It's soothing to be reminded that the sun touches every person. And at some point, the person you love will glance up at the clouds and thank the sun for warming him or curse it for being too hot. Either way, if you watch the sun all day, for one fraction of a second your beloved will view it at the same time you do, and you can share that moment. The sentiment is ruined by the fact that neither Peeta nor Finnick can look at the sun right now, but hopefully that will change very soon.

Gale has completed his third lap in a series of races with himself when he drops into his usual seat near Madge. I can see their reflection in the glass. He leans his elbows onto his knees and puts his fist to his mouth, as if he's holding something in. I imagine it's an expletive about making the clock move faster.

I go back to looking at the rainbow of buildings, wondering if anyone can see me through the thick glass, and what they would do if they saw me.

"Gale, could you please sit still?" Madge asks politely, but an undercurrent of irritation permeates her voice.

"Moving around is the only way I can keep calm," Gale replies. His annoyance boils just on the cusp.

"Why didn't you just stay downstairs with Wing and Garrett?"

"I was sent to check up on you. Make sure you were safe."

"We're perfectly safe without your help," she snaps. And their streak of quiet civility has officially ended.

Gale rubs his hand over his face, but he doesn't respond. I'm equally shocked and impressed. He managed to contain whatever juvenile comeback undoubtedly came to mind. Now, if only Madge could find it in her heart to be nice. Her path to the high road is a bit bumpier, regrettably.

"What did Wing say to you?" Gale abruptly asks from behind his fist. All eyes in the room turn toward him, even Annie, who doesn't know the whole story, but she can sense the tension of the question.

"What do you care?" Madge replies immediately, but I believe it to be an automatic response. If I'm shocked that Gale would ask such a thing, she must be too. Madge adjusts her position on the sofa needlessly, scooting closer to the armrest.

Gale leans back into the plush pillows, throwing his arm across the back. He takes pleasure in making Madge squirm, having never been able to do so before. "Well, after that dramatic display you can't blame me for being curious," Gale says with a sideways smirk.

Madge tucks her hands underneath her legs in an effort to keep from fiddling with her necklace, presumably. She bites at her lip. She searches for a way to change the subject. But who knows when these two will ever be trapped in a room together again? I'm proud of Gale for asking something candidly of Madge after months of childish bickering, so I decide to follow his initiative.

"I have to admit I'm a little curious, too," I say.

Madge practically attacks me with her eyes. Her stare is very easy to translate. _Traitor._ She wiggles around in her seat. It's endearing. It reminds of the mayor's daughter from Twelve that she used to be. "Wing tells me things all the time," Madge hedges.

_Come on, Madge. We all know that isn't going to cut it. _

"And what did he mean _this_ time?" Gale inquires, turning his body inwardly toward Madge.

"He said that…" She pauses while grasping at the collar of her shirt and running her thumb over the chain of her necklace. "He thinks…I'm amazing," she mutters like she's confessing an embarrassing secret. Although the words are rather generic, they're touching, and I believe Wing meant them.

Gale leans back against the pillows again. "Oh," he grunts.

The intensity returns to Madge's eyes. This time it's meant for Gale. "What's wrong with that?"

"I thought it would be something more profound. I mean, that's just pointing out the obvious." He shrugs.

And Madge must be stunned because she hasn't anything snarky to say in response. If Madge's heart doesn't warm at Gale's words, then mine does, more so than when he said words of affection toward me. It's a rewarding feeling to no longer have jealousy over Gale and Madge's relationship. It's so much more important to me that they find happiness. If they do so with one another, then all the better; well, not all the better for Wing.

Madge's hand leaves the chain around her neck. She settles it at her side. "He told me he loves me."

Suddenly, it's very difficult to look at the two of them. I look back at the window and Dr. Holden clears his throat. I assume he and Annie can't stand to look either. How many awkward conversations can we have in the course of a couple of hours?

Gale shifts in his spot, much like Madge did. "I guess that's pretty obvious, too," he admits. And he's right. Wing has been head over heels for Madge for weeks. Madge mentioned Wing's penchant for flirting isn't as extreme as his reputation infers, meaning he stopped flirting with other girls since he met Madge. He compliments her. He gives her gifts. He supports her and promises his commitment. And what does Gale do? Gale humiliates Madge, doubts her abilities, and fights with her. It's not much of a competition. Still, I have to wonder why Madge says no to Wing when the competition is so one-sided.

"Do you…," Gale starts, but stops short of asking the question. "Never mind." We all know what he meant to ask, especially Madge._ Do you love him?_ She couldn't be expected to answer. That's not any of Gale's business, or mine, or anyone's but hers and Wing's.

"I don't know," she whispers, looking Gale straight in the eye. Her eyes glaze over the same way they did when she stared at his scarred back this morning. Is Gale the reason she's keeping things from turning serious with Wing? Could she possibly be waiting for him to get it together and apologize? There's no real reason for me to assume this. Madge said, in no uncertain terms, that she _hates_ Gale for humiliating her. She resents him for being able to protect his family from the bombing when she wasn't strong enough to save her own. Gale reminds her of her former weakness. She's never said she likes him. On the other hand, Madge looks at Gale like Haymitch lusts after a new bottle of liquor. There's something more she wants to say, something else she feels; I know it. Madge has a lot to explain and Gale has a lot to apologize for. Well, here's an opportunity for them both.

"Madge, I—"

Gale is interrupted by the swoosh of the door opening. I turn around, prepared to see Dr. Holden there, but he's still on the couch. The two Peacekeepers charge through the opening.

"We got a call from Level Four saying your quarantine ward is empty! You're needed down there right away," the tall, redheaded Peacekeeper says gruffly.

"Oh my god!" Dr. Holden fakes his alarm. Yes, the patients are gone, but no one is in danger of a disease. They've safely left the building by now. He moves to the door, and before I can think about what we'll do without him, the other Peacekeeper holds his hand over Dr. Holden's chest, stopping him. The Peacekeeper's eyes are on me. I don't know why. I didn't say anything. I touch my face.

I don't have my mask on.

"Shit…that's…," he stutters. The short one looks at the tall one in utter horror and within a second they both have it figured out.

Dr. Holden tries to quickly diffuse the situation. "Now gentlemen, there's no reason to—"

But the Peacekeepers aren't listening. One draws his gun and the other makes a break for the door.

"Stop!" Gale says with authority, but he doesn't shout because the door is still open. He stands with his gun drawn in an instant. Every muscle in his body tenses, from his neck to his fingers.

The shorter Peacekeeper spins around and fumbles for his gun. Madge jumps up to her feet and pulls out her weapon in one smooth action. She wedges herself next to Gale.

"Put your weapons down!" the redheaded Peacekeepers hollers.

"You first," snorts Gale.

They seem to be in a standoff, but I think Madge and Gale are more reluctant than a Peacekeeper to shoot. I'm about to reach for my weapon because then the Peacekeepers will be outnumbered and they'll have no choice but to stand down, when I'm distracted by a whimpering noise coming from the sofa. Annie breathes furiously as she sinks her dull fingernails into her hairline. Yes, she has the medications flowing through her, but the tension in the room isn't just a small visual reminder of the Games. Violence stares us all in the face and the tension in the room is so palpable, it hurts. She moans through her heavy breathing. Annie tries to fight the visions of blood, the sounds of screams in the night, but weapons are drawn in her nook of solitude, and even the medications can't stop what's coming. No one lowers their guns, but everyone darts their eyes toward the woman who's living up to her reputation.

"Annie…relax," Dr. Holden tries, but it's not enough. His smooth voice gets caught up in his fear.

Annie's entire body begins to shake. A sheen of sweat breaks across her forehead. "No…please…," she begs the demons inside her. What does she see? Floods? Fires? Birds that spear your neck or wild dogs that eat you slowly, painfully? Her partner being beheaded over and over? There's so much to choose from. All of a sudden, her tight hands grip the cushions, halting the shaking. "You can't hurt me…_I_ can…" She takes in a choked breath. Her hooded eyes flutter open. The shorter Peacekeeper mistakenly locks eyes with her, and within one of Annie's labored breaths she lunges at the man in uniform, clawing at his face rabidly, and screaming. He's thrown off balance and falls to the floor, despite the vast difference in their weight.

The taller Peacekeeper is shocked by the attack and attempts to heave the screaming woman off his cursing partner. Gale takes advantage of his distraction and hits him on the back of his neck with the butt of his gun, forcing him to his knees with a nauseating thud. He dashes to the door, hits a score of buttons in his haste, causing the door to swoosh shut.

Even though Annie took the Peacekeeper by surprise, he still outweighs her significantly, and shoves her a good couple of feet away from him. She snarls at him like an animal, until he whips his gun across her face. Annie snivels and curls up into a ball. Acting out in defense of her friends is one thing, but being struck sends her into a different tailspin.

Gale is distracted by the sight and doesn't notice the redheaded Peacekeeper lift up his gun directly at Gale's heart. He's not posing his gun as a threat; he's preparing to pull the trigger. I can see it in the intensity and commitment of his gaze. It's how everyone looks before they're about to strike, even animals. My warning is about to leave my throat, when Gale is abruptly pushed. I expect to hear a loud bang. Instead a muffled _pop_ reaches my ears a second later. Then another. Annie whimpers from the floor at the sound of each innocuous noise. One wouldn't think the sound to be lethal. Yet a pool of blood forms under the body of a Peacekeeper.

Gale stands above him, breathing heavy for no reason, holding his gun as if the dead man will suddenly move. He won't. His eyes are empty. The shorter Peacekeeper, the one who is alive, lifts his gun up toward Gale's face.

"Drop it!" I shout, finally wrenching my gun from its holster. I should have gotten it out a long time ago, but really, the whole encounter couldn't have been more than a minute. The Peacekeeper drops his weapon to the floor. I step closer and pick it up. Gale commands him to get on the floor. He obeys. He can't see Gale pound the base of his gun directly into the back of his head, knocking him out instantly, if not killing him.

Annie is a blubbering mess on one side of the room, while a pained moan erupts from other. Madge has collapsed on the ground, holding her hand over her arm. Blood is seeping from in between her fingers.

"Oh my…Madge!" Gale yells before he crouches to her side. His hands ghost over her body, but he doesn't know where to touch. "Are you okay?" he asks in a panic.

"Holy shit! They didn't train me for this," she moans.

"Put her in the bathroom!" Dr. Holden shouts, putting a doctor's perspective on all this. "Katniss, stay with Annie, please."

Gale lifts Madge from under her good arm, despite her protests that she can walk. He carries her across the room and into a large bathroom. Dr. Holden follows behind right after grabbing some kind of supplies from a locked closet. It's there in case of emergencies, I guess, but locked so Annie can't get into the supplies.

I crouch next to Annie, who seems to have lost all her rage, and cries into the carpet. I don't think it's a good idea for her to be in sight of one dead man and one possibly dead man, so I lightly tug on her arm. She whimpers a little louder and cringes away from me. I wish Dr. Holden would have given me more instructions. I don't even know what to say or if I should say anything.

"I have to remove the bullet. Try to hold still, Madge."

I hear Dr. Holden from the bathroom, unfortunately. Followed by Madge's screams. Annie and I both flinch at her wails of pain. And I have to speculate as to why no one has investigated between Annie and Madge's screams. The only thing I can guess, besides the fact that Dr. Holden is in here and along with his "associates", is that it must not be uncommon to hear screams coming from Annie's room, given all the panic attacks they inflicted on her.

Annie's sobbing intensifies, as does the rate of her breathing. I have to calm her down somehow. And then maybe her medication will kick in again. Although my reactions have never been this severe, I think of the panic when I awaken from a nightmare. How it constricts my lungs and haunts my thoughts. I feel so lost, like I'll never be safe again. That is, until Peeta is there; whispering to me, telling me loving phrases that draw me out of the darkness.

"Annie, you're safe. You're going to see your Finnick again very soon," I whisper into her ear. I gather her long hair away from her ear so she can hear me better. "He's waiting for you. He loves you. He thinks about you every moment. I know because I've seen him. He's an absolute mess. You wouldn't recognize him." I laugh, and it doesn't sound as false as one would guess. Annie's whimpers subside. "And when you're together again all the pain is going to go away. No more scary thoughts or nightmares." That's how it is for me. When her breathing becomes more shallow, I know that's how it is for her, too. She lets me tuck my arms under her and lift her to her feet. We stumble to her bed and she lies down, muttering a poem I barely recognize. She's going to need ice. One side of her face is already swelling up.

Just as I get her situated, Gale exits the bathroom, carrying Madge once again, but now her jacket is missing and she's got a thick bandage from her elbow to her shoulder. Dr. Holden works fast. He is the best doctor in the Capitol, and hopefully, he was able to treat her wound with something better than my mother's stitches.

Gale settles her gently on the sofa, being especially careful not to jostle her injured arm. Dr. Holden comes out, shaking water from his hands after washing the blood from them. Madge's blood is spotted over his bright white coat. It cover's Madge's top and also Gale's chest and knees. Dr. Holden goes to Annie's side and looks her over. He gives me a nod. I must have done something right.

"Can't you give her something for the pain?" Gale pleads. He kneels on the carpet beside Madge.

"I could, but it's better she be conscious when we leave," Dr. Holden says.

There's a startling bubble of laughter coming from where Gale and Madge are. It was too feminine a laugh to be Gale's.

Gale puts his hand gently on top of her head, stroking her forehead with his thumb. "What are you laughing at?" he asks with raised eyebrows.

"You're trying to get me morphling," she mumbles.

"And why is that funny?"

"It's not. It's really not," she says, but then she laughs again. Gale looks over her with amazement. And it's obvious we've all caught a touch of Annie's fragile mentality.

"I'm fine. It's not bad," she says in a strained voice.

"Yeah, right," Gale says with another sweep of his thumb over her forehead, then down cheek. "What were you thinking, crazy girl?" And I think it would entertain Gale to know he's not the first to call her that. Gale isn't talking about her refusal of the painkillers. He means how she put herself in front of a bullet for him.

"I can give her petaphin," Dr. Holden suggests.

"Petaphin for a gunshot wound?" Gale gripes at the doctor. Petaphin is a standard pain reliever, usually appropriate for a headache or a sprain.

"She can have something stronger when she gets on the hovercraft."

_The hovercraft_. After all that anxious waiting, the scuffle has made us close to being late for our rendezvous with Garrett and Wing. And now we have a wounded Madge and a motionless Annie to deal with. Maybe we can put them on gurneys? It worked with getting in. We just need to move now.

I'm about to make my suggestion, when a very unusual ringing sound interrupts Annie's breaths and Madge's small groans. It's similar to the noise of some kind of hospital monitor, but Annie isn't connected to anything. I look to Gale, but he's looking at me with the same ignorance.

Dr. Holden reaches into the interior pocket of his soiled lab coat, extracting a small silver object, from which the ringing is obviously being emitted. He's staring at it dumbly, like he didn't know it was in his pocket.

"I thought we weren't supposed to be in contact with anyone," Madge says softly from the sofa. Gale shushes her. She rolls her eyes.

Oh. It's some kind of telephone. And Haymitch did make it explicitly clear that we are not to make contact with Thirteen. And they weren't to have contact with us.

"We're not," Dr. Holden gulps. He slides his thumb over the surface of the phone. It splits apart, revealing a mouth piece to speak into. He holds it over his ear. He does not say a greeting.

Two seconds of silence.

"Yes."

Fifteen seconds of silence.

"I understand."

Six seconds of silence.

"Yes." He drops the phone away from his ear. He gestures it toward me. "Speak quickly. No names," he instructs.

I've never used a phone like the one he holds, and I'm a little afraid I'm going to break it just by touching it. But I take it, because he told me to. I press it against my ear and listen. I only hear static. "Hello?"

_"Hi, sweetheart."_ Who knew I would ever enjoy hearing Haymitch's gruff voice again? _"I needed to have a word with the doctor. How are you holding up?"_

Of course he asks ridiculous questions. "I've been better. How are _you_?"

_ "Don't be a smart mouth,"_ he scolds.

"Why are you calling?"

There's silence again, but I'm too wound up to count.

_"It's Peeta. He's sick."_

Breaking the rules. Using names. Saying things I already know.

"I know."

_"He's taken a turn. It's his kidneys or something. I don't know. We didn't anticipate the toll the drugs took on him."_

What? His…kidneys? Haymitch's words make sense, but they don't. Peeta was under such a grueling torrent of drugs it's natural that his internal organs would be affected negatively. But Peeta is getting better, not worse. He went through the withdrawal from the drugs and now he's better. Everyday he's a little bit stronger. Why would Haymitch lie to me like this? It has to be a lie. Peeta promised. He _promised_.

"Let me talk to him," I say with an uncomfortable calm.

_"He's asleep." _

"Then wake him up." Less calm. "I swear to God, if you don't let me talk to him right now—"

_"You'll what?" _he interrupts.

What can I do? I can't reach through the phone to scratch at Haymitch's eyes, which is what I want to do. I clutch at my jacket for my letter, when I realize, in my haste I never took it out of the pocket of my old jacket. I don't have it anymore. That was my only piece of Peeta. I read it a dozen times, but I already feel the words slipping out of my head. I need to hear his voice so he can tell me how wrong Haymitch is. "Please let me talk to my husband," I whisper, tears prickling at my eyes and making my vision blurry.

Haymitch can't see those tears. _"Just get yourself back here, okay?" _

"Wait. Please—"

Silence.

"Haymitch…," I try, though I know it won't work. The connection has ended. Haymitch has risked everything to tell me…what…what did he tell me? I drop the phone on Annie's bed and stagger toward the windows. The sun is out of sight behind the skyscrapers. An orange and pink light fills up the sky, far more brilliant and beautiful than any of the Capitol's sparkling buildings. Is it the same as the last sunset I watched with Peeta? I'm not sure. My memories aren't sharp enough. Peeta would remember. He remembers everything important. I clutch at my jacket again, willing the letter to be there by some stroke of magic. It's empty.

"Husband?" a voice I recognize as Gale's questions.

Oh, right. I'm not alone. Far from it.

"We had a toasting before I left. It probably doesn't count," I explain idly. I didn't even realize I gave my precious secret away. I just said it.

"If you say it counts, it counts," Madge says quietly.

My forehead touches the window. The light hurts my eyes, but I don't close them. I need to remember.

"Is he okay?" Gale asks.

"No." The word hurts to say. It lingers in my throat like a residual burn. I can taste the ash in my mouth. "I think he's dying."

The interesting thing is, Peeta has been near death on my watch countless times, but this is different. He's not supposed to die like this. If anyone should die, it's me. I'm the one in mortal danger. It's not supposed to be Peeta. I promised I would come back and he promised he would be there. Peeta doesn't break his promises.

I ponder on what Haymitch said once more. It's his kidneys that are failing him? That's a textbook kind of illness, right? It's not a trackerjacker sting or a bite from a muttation in a simulated forest. This is something that can be fixed. I turn to Dr. Holden, finding my voice amongst the residue in my mouth. "What did Haymitch say to you?"

Dr. Holden sits on Annie's bed; his shoulders slumped forward in defeat. "It was about the pick up. The flight was delayed in Two. You're going to have to find a different way home."

Not only is my throat on fire, but my chest is tight, and my head swirls with dizziness. I have to put my hand on the glass to steady myself. Haymitch tells me to get back to Thirteen, but he doesn't give me any way to do so. Scratching his eyes out is the least of the things I'm going to do to him.

_Wait. _My mind finally catches up. Something is off about what Dr. Holden said. "What do you mean, _you're_?" He didn't say when _we_ go home. He distinctly said _you're_.

"I'm not going to Thirteen with you."

"What?" I fumble.

"I'm staying here," he reiterates.

I trudge away from the windows. Dr. Holden isn't thrown by my mood swings. He's dealt with worse. "You have to come with us. You can help him," I insist.

"They're going to need help here."

"_I_ need help!" I shout into his face. "Did you hear what I said? My husband is _dying_."

"I'm sorry, Katniss." There's true remorse in his voice, but I can't accept it.

"You said all that shit about helping your fellow man and you won't help _me_?"

"This is my home."

"I don't have a home! Snow destroyed it! He took Peeta away from me. I barely got him back, and Snow is still going to take him. And you won't help me!" I understand the depth of Snow's plan for Peeta. They didn't make Peeta sick enough to kill him. Even though he knew nothing of the rebellion, they could still use him as bait. They made him comatose so he'd have no memory and be of no use to the rebels, and they ruined his system enough to make sure he died in case he escaped. And now, the doctor who I believed to be my friend refuses to help because we're about to destroy a hospital in his home. A hospital that could heal Peeta.

"We can wait on the detonation," I say in a plea of desperation to Gale and Madge.

Gale leans away from Madge, but keeps one hand touching hers. "We can't."

"Wait till I can get Peeta here," I suggest. "It will only take a day. They can fix him and we'll leave together."

"We don't have a day."

"We can try."

"Katniss!" he shouts in frustration. "This one strike took weeks and a lot of luck to happen. And even with that, Madge is wounded, and there's a dead man in the corner!" Gale breathes harder, his desperate emotions matching mine. Madge covers his hand with hers, running her thumb over his bloodied knuckles. I feel a stinging hot jealousy run through me. Not to be in Madge's place, but that they have one another for comfort while Peeta and I are alone.

"This is our one chance," Gale says. "The rebels are counting on us."

_Don't bring up the rebels. Don't bring up the noble cause._ _I don't ask for much._ _Let me have this._

"I don't care!" I exclaim.

"You do care. I know you do. Do you want us to lose this war after everything we've been though, everything _you've _been through?" Gale asks.

"It won't matter," I cry as tears streak down my face. I fall to my knees. I can't hold myself up. I came here to fulfill my duties as the Mockingjay. I came to repay Finnick. More than anything, I came so Peeta and I could have a safe future. Now that future is dimmer than ever before. The war will end, one way or another, but what will I have when it's over?

I feel Gale's warm body crouch next to me. He puts his arm around my waist. His gesture gives me no comfort. "Come on," he murmurs. "Let's go home. You can see your husband."

I work on autopilot as we get things situated. We move as quickly as possible, knowing the entire infectious disease floor must in a panic wondering where Dr. Holden is. Madge can get around well enough, considering her blood loss. Gale gives her his jacket to cover up the bandage since hers is covered with blood, but he has to forfeit his gun because he has no way of concealing it. Annie flounders somewhere between being awake and being asleep. Her bed turns into a gurney and she'll be easy to move. We leave the Peacekeepers where they lay. There's no way to conceal the evidence and with any luck we'll be gone before they're found. Gale tends to Madge and Dr. Holden looks over Annie. I have no one. I just put my mask over my face and follow.

We're stopped on the way to the elevator by another doctor. Dr. Holden mutters something about Annie having a reaction to the medication and we're moving her to a different floor. The doctor lets us pass, but not before saying something about Annie's legendary outbursts and how he's glad that Dr. Holden is back to deal with her, as he has always had some kind of magic touch. Yeah, the magic touch was not pumping her full of drugs or forcing her into mental breakdowns.

I take in a breath of relief as the elevator doors are about to close, that is, until I hear the ding of the adjacent elevator, and a pair of Peacekeepers exit onto the floor. They're probably here to switch out the guard. Our luck has run out.

We rush out onto the landing bay. It isn't as crowded as I expect. Perhaps the morning is a much busier time for the hospital. There are plenty of hovercrafts to choose from, but quite a few Peacekeepers moving around, and very shortly they'll be alerted to look for us. I think of the redheaded man still lying in Annie's room and feel sick to my stomach. I closed his eyes before we left.

We find Wing and Garrett a little ways off. They're looking over a dismantled engine and chatting with a mechanic. I think Garrett is actually offering the mechanic some tips. This is Garrett and Wing's home originally, after all. They know how to talk with the locals. They say a quick goodbye to the man when they notice us march out onto the floor. They walk at a quick pace to reach us. Wing smiles big until he sees Madge's arm tucked against her body from beneath Gale's jacket.

"What the hell happened?" he asks harshly, but quietly. He goes to touch her hand, but Madge waves him off.

"I'll explain later," Madge answers, her voice a tad drowsy. "We need to find a different hovercraft. The one Haymitch planned for our use won't be here in time."

"And people are going to be looking for us any minute now," Gale hisses. So he noticed the new pair of Peacekeepers, too?

Both Garrett and Wing's eyes open wide, but for the sake of the situation, they remain calm.

"Uh, okay? Any suggestions, Doc?" Wing asks.

"I suggest you get on anything leaving the Capitol and commandeer the craft once it's in the air."

"I think that's best," Garrett agrees. "The mechanic over there says the flight JS-1205 is supposed to leave soon. It's headed for District Three. Do you think you can get us on board?"

Dr. Holden gets us aboard easily, like he said it was going to be. Respect for Dr. Holden appears wherever we go. He makes up some lie about us being injured workers from District Three who are well enough to go home. The pilot looks us over dubiously, especially when considering taking a girl passed out on a gurney, but when Dr. Holden flashes his credentials, he lets us pass.

It's a small, simple supply vessel with only the pilot and one Peacekeeper on board. Once we're in the air and out of the Capitol, we'll force the Peacekeeper to relinquish his weapon. We won't kill him. Wing will take over command of the aircraft. We won't hurt the pilot either. We could probably use him. Wing will cut off all transmissions from the Capitol and Three, and fly us in the direction of Thirteen. Then, when the right amount of time has passed, Garrett will initiate the device and the hospital will be gone.

I'm standing on the ramp leading into the deck. Dr. Holden waits at the base. "You'd better go," I instruct him. He needs to get out of the hospital, and since the men in Annie's room are about to be discovered, if they haven't already, he's liable to be stopped.

"I'm sorry I can't do more," he says lowly. It's an absurd apology, even through my anger I can see that. He's already done an extraordinary amount for the rebellion. He's dedicated himself to doing much, much more. He's one of the true heroes of this story. What have I done?

I slip my fingers behind my ears and let the mask drop from my face. I don't fear if anyone sees me. I hope someone does. I want to at least fulfill my one duty and embrace my unsolicited standing in this rebellion. I want them to see me, fear me, love me, or hate me. Just let my existence truly mean something to this effort beyond apathetic symbolism. I need that tiny piece of pride because when this flight leaves the bay, and all the things happen that were inevitable from the start, Panem will be free.

And my last hope will disappear.


	14. Bandages

A/N: Hello…? How is everyone recuperating after MJ? My god, that book _hurts_. This story is fluffy bunnies and kittens in comparison. This has become harder to write than it was before, but I do want to finish it. I think the characters deserve that and I don't want to let any of the readers down after you've been so encouraging.

Spoilers? Meh. I think we can safely say this story isn't remotely similar to MJ. If you're very concerned, just don't read it until you've read MJ, okay? However, be assured that this is the conclusion I intended to write.

Anyway, thank you to Lily for pointing out my medical blunder in the last chapter. Apparently, my viewing of _House _does not leave me qualified to dispense medical treatment.

Extra special thanks to Medea Smyke. Send her love, too. We fic authors need a boost.

**Bandages**

_Plink! Plonk!_

_ Plink! Plonk!_

_ Plink! Miss. _

_The ball rolls across the room and under a cabinet. I sigh before I walk around the table to pick it up. My back is getting sore from bending over so much. "You're no good at this game," I mutter as I crouch on the floor to find the runaway ball. _

_ "I'm in a wheelchair," Peeta says in his defense. _

_ I slide my paddle under the cabinet so I don't have to stick my hand into the dust and cobwebs. The ball comes rolling out. I stand up and bounce it on my paddle a few times, enjoying the light sound the hollow ball makes. "Yes, well, I'm getting bored because you're no competition," I say in jest. All of this talk is just for fun. I'm aware Peeta is in a wheelchair and can't move as quickly as the game requires, and neither of us cares who wins and who loses. But one thing I know Peeta does not enjoy, just as much as being unable to walk, is being coddled. So I don't. At least in this instance. I bounce the ball again, showing off the skill I've already developed since we picked up the silly game, when the ball hits a pockmark in my paddle where some of the rubber has worn away, sending the ball flying in a different direction. _

_ Peeta smirks at me. "You think you can back up that trash talk, Everdeen?" he teases. _

_ I try to suppress the growing heat to my face as I retrieve the ball again. Once I have it in hand, I take my place at one end of the heavily indented green table, preparing to serve. The net sags in the middle and the two halves of the table don't meet up evenly, but we have all the pieces the game requires. I serve Peeta an easy lob to start off, but it's only fair, since Peeta _is_ in a wheelchair. _

_ Plink! Plonk! _

_ Plink! Plonk! _

_ Plink!_

_ Suddenly, Peeta moves his chair back and turns, so his chair sits parallel to his end of the table. He winds his arm back, eyes the ball carefully, and smacks it hard over the net. It barely hits my side of the table before it zings past my hip. I have quick reflexes. I reach for it, but miss. _

_ "Ha!" Peeta laughs in triumph. _

_ "Nicely done," I commend him. "Now the score is 4-11." _

_ His proud smile turns embarrassed. "Ouch," Peeta chuckles. His paddle clatters as he tosses it on the table, probably creating new marks. He does a quick turn around and rolls next to me. "Well, I distinctly remember beating you at a game of __Force Field Toss__."_

_ I find the white ball in a dusty corner. I rest it in a dent in the table so it doesn't roll away again. "We need to come up with a better name for it." _

_ "__Capitol Apple Throw__?" he muses. _

_ "That's no good either."_

_ "__Anti-Suicide__—"_

_ I hold up my hands in protest. "Okay, just stop right there." I decide __Force Field Toss__ works fine. _

_ Peeta scoots up closer, stopping when his knees touch mine. He was given the wheelchair only two days ago. He was elated at first to be out of bed, but he's so impatient he's already asking Shell about walking. "Looks like you're getting the hang of it," I say. _

_ "Yeah. Kind of," he replies indifferently. He's not going to be happy until he's out of the hospital wing entirely. He'll get there. It's simply going to take time. _

_ "It's not so bad. At least you can get around. And if you keep going to therapy and exercising and then you'll be walking in no time," I say encouragingly. He doesn't like it when I patronize him either, but I don't want him to overexert himself just because he's impatient. _

_ "You know, there is one thing about this wheelchair that I do like." His voice slurs in a dangerous way. _

_ "What is that?"_

_ In a move I would think was too quick for him, he grasps my hips, throwing me a bit off balance. With a tug, he forces me to fall in his direction, right into his lap. I brace myself on the armrests of his chair so I don't clobber him, but he keeps on shifting me closer, so that I'm sitting sideways in his lap, tucked in comfortably against his chest. _

"_Yeah, this is nice." He smiles warmly. I feel my cheeks go pink._

_ "Until you lose the feeling in your legs," I mutter. _

_Peeta nuzzles into the crook of my neck. I kind of squirm involuntarily. He feels it and places a kiss where my neck meets my shoulder. "Well, until then." Another kiss. Another squirm. _

_It's not that I dislike Peeta's affection, it's just…new. I realize I'm making a nonsensical statement when I think this. Peeta and I have been kissing in public for years, but before now, my heart wasn't part of it. I kept it out due to fear and confusion and feelings I had for another man, but things have changed. My heart belongs to Peeta now, and despite our involvement in the past,_ that_ is something new. _

_ Peeta touches my face, guiding it down so he can see me. "Hey, you okay?"_

_ I look away from his eyes like a coward. I want to cover my flushed cheeks. I play with the collar of his shirt. "Shell could walk in here any second." _

_ "I'm not scared of Shell," he responds. _

_ I keep touching his collar. There's a thread there and I pull on it, even though you're not supposed to pull on loose threads. I heard that many times from Hazelle. Peeta takes one of my fidgeting hands and interlaces our fingers. _

"_If you don't want me to kiss you, I won't," Peeta says softly. _

_ The nerves get chased away by the surprise. "Why would you think that?"_

_ Peeta moves his hips, adjusting the way I'm sitting in his lap. His legs are already going numb, but he won't admit it. "You seem a little…uncomfortable."_

_ There's been an undeniable shift between us. When Peeta first got to Thirteen, it was just handholding, sitting together, and kisses good morning and goodnight. He could barely sit up so he couldn't handle much more than that. Since he's gotten stronger and become able to get out of bed on a regular basis, things have become progressively more…physical. Fingers on my hips and my waist. Lips not only on my lips. On my ear, my neck, my shoulders. It causes my skin to heat up, my heart to pound against my ribs, and there's that thing in my stomach that tingles and spins like a firecracker. New, new, new. It makes me feel out of control. The fact that I've come to crave the feeling unsettles me even more._

"_I want you to kiss me," I whisper. Peeta squeezes my fingers. He's relieved. He's an eighteen year old boy. I prop my legs over the armrest of his chair and scoot down so I can tuck my head under his chin. It's better here. He can't see my red face and it's easier to talk about the things that are new. "It's just…overwhelming sometimes."_

_ "What's overwhelming?"_

_ "How much I…," I fumble. Okay, so it's not that much easier. "Feel for you." _

_ "It overwhelms me, too." _

_ "Then why aren't you blushing?"_

_ "Because I've been overwhelmed since I was five years old. I've grown accustomed to the sensation." _

_ "Are you okay with the fact that's it's new to me?" Peeta must feel like I'm a hundred years behind. He must be frustrated, maybe even resentful. I wish I could make myself catch up faster, but I'm stuck sliding along a learning curve. _

_Peeta lets go of my fingers. He folds his arms around me. This isn't new. This feels like nights on the train, nights before the Games. This is safe and warm and home. _

_ "Yeah. It's okay with me." And I don't think I'll ever be able to predict the things that come from Peeta Mellark's mouth as long as I live._

* * *

We never did decide on a good name for that game.

One would think I would be more focused, that getting to Peeta would be the absolute only thing on my mind, and it is, in a way. I try to think of a plan. I think about how we're going to get a doctor from the Capitol to come to Thirteen or how we're going to figure out a treatment for Peeta or how I'm going to string up Haymitch by his neck. But before I can come up with a plan that will actually work, my mind drifts off to something else. Some random, silly moment. A hurried kiss. An irritated look. A prolonged touch. Ping pong matches and the precious conversations that follow.

"Katniss?"

I blink twice before I see that the elevator doors are open and everyone but me has emptied the lift. Gale holds his hand out for me. I take it because it's there. The underground compound is quiet and dark, but not as quiet or as dark as it was above ground where we landed. Why am I not running? Why am I not flinging myself at Peeta's door? I know where it is. I spent two months in that room.

"Hey," Gale says to get my attention. We're standing in the same place outside the elevator doors, only now it's only he and I. He should be with his family. He should be with Madge. She probably went to the hospital wing to have her injury checked out. That's where I should be. "Where's your head at, Catnip?"

"I don't think I can do this," I whisper wearily. "I can't watch him…"

_Die. I can't watch him die. Again._

"You're his wife, right?"

I nod robotically. I feel like my head isn't attached to my body. When was the last time I slept?

"Then you're going to be a good wife to him. Stay beside him when he's sick. That's part of the vows, isn't it?"

I nod again. There was something about that. I try not to remember right now because if I do, I'll think of nothing else.

A blur of gray beneath my feet becomes the only thing my eyes can see. My legs move forward because Gale pulls on my arm. He takes me where I need to go; where I'm too scared to go on my own.

The door appears. I'm hit with a nauseating wave of déjà vu. It wasn't long ago that I was standing here with the knowledge that Peeta was on the other side of the door after six long months away from me. I didn't know if he was going to live or die. I reacted differently then. I rushed through the door without a second thought. I had spent so long waiting for him. I wasn't going to waste a moment being afraid.

Why am I standing here? Why am I so scared to go in that room?

Gale releases my hand. "Do you want me to go in with you?"

I shake my head, but I also don't move forward. I can't go in there without a plan. Peeta needs me to have a solution and I don't have one yet. I shouldn't have let myself get distracted with stupid things. Ping pong.

"If you don't go in you're going to regret it," Gale says wisely. And he's right because I already do. I regret leaving for the mission, even if it was a success. Gale touches my face, guiding my eyes to meet his. His hand is warm. It feels nice, but it's not the right touch. "Take it one step at a time, okay? He's going to be really happy to see you, and you're going to be happy to see him." He drops his hand. My eyes fall to the doorknob. I hear his soft footsteps as they quietly fade away, leaving me to do this on my own. But that's not right. I'm not on my own, not yet. I have Peeta.

He is my husband. I am his wife.

The lights are off except for one of the sconces on the wall. The first thing I see is him. Curled up on his side; sleeping as any normal person would be at this time of the night. The second thing I see is myself. I take up an entire wall of the room. Another wave of déjà vu hits my gut. Over a dozen pencil drawings line the wall across from the bed, but they're not the same as Peeta's paintings of the Games. The images aren't scary. There's no Clove or Cornucopia or knives or blood. There I am asleep in a mess of blankets. His hand holding mine. I'm smiling in these pictures. I'm happy.

I notice Prim sitting in the one uncomfortable chair the room provides. Her head lolls to the side, hair swaying gently as she exhales. Her late night vigil warms my heart. She's a better healer now than most doctors will ever be.

A touch to her shoulder rouses her like a cat. She sits up straight and turns her head toward the offending contact. Unlike a cat, her eyes take a second to focus on me. Her mouth drops open. "Katniss," she gasps.

"Hi, little duck."

"Oh! Katniss!" Prim hastily throws her arms around my neck. "Thank God you're safe."

I breathe her in. She smells like lilac perfume. I don't know where she got something like that down here. Then I grin, imaging Rory giving it to her as a gift. I revel in our embrace for a few more seconds. Sadly, her warmth loses its soothing comfort when I see Peeta's face over her shoulder. He looks…the same, almost. He's paler than before. He looks weaker, somehow? His hair hangs too long and has gotten smushed and tangled under the arm he uses as a pillow. Combined with the soft snores puffing from his mouth he's beautifully boyish.

Prim notices the stiffness of my embrace and lets me go. Her voice isn't jealous or offended. She understands. "He sleeps a lot. When he's awake he wants to know about you."

This does not surprise me. From the images on the wall behind me it's evident I've been in his thoughts. However, a pang of concern goes off within me when I think about his excessive sleeping and what might be haunting his thoughts as a consequence. Peeta had come to loathe sleeping. It reminded him of the perpetual unconsciousness they put him through in the Capitol and he struggled to keep his nightmares at bay. He was afraid I wouldn't be there when he woke up. "Does he have nightmares?" I ask, fearful of the answer.

"Um…," Prim hedges. "You should talk to him about that."

I don't know what she means, but my instinct tells me it's nothing good. "Do you mind?"

Again, Prim understands. "Of course not." She pushes up on her toes, not as far as she used to need to, and kisses me on the cheek. "I'm so happy you're here." She steps out without a sound. I only know by the click of the door when it shuts.

It's just me, him, and the cold room we've come to know so well.

I'm frozen. I don't know what to do. If he weren't sick, I'd wake him up. I'd kiss him and I wouldn't stop until we needed to breathe. But this isn't the scene I thought I would come back to. Peeta is sick. Sick in a way I cannot heal. So I stand here.

What did Gale say? One step at a time. I follow his instructions and take a single step, then another, until my body reaches the edge of the bed and I can take no more. Peeta's breaths are shallow and slow. In my sleep-deprived state it lulls me into an even drowsier condition. I consider taking a seat in the chair Prim vacated, but that's not where I want to be, and come to think of it, that's not where Peeta would want me to be. He asked me every single night we had together if I would stay with him. Why did I ever say no?

I'm very careful as I sit on the edge of the bed. I bring one leg up, then the other. There isn't much room for me and I have the sensation that I'm about to teeter off the bed. I gingerly turn onto my side; moving closer to Peeta, but not disrupting him. One step at a time. Until my nose is next to his and I can feel his warm breath fan my face. It's so different now than it was that day we played ping pong in the recreation room. My head may be afraid, but my body has no apprehension about being this close to him.

"I missed you," I whisper. I'm terrified of waking him while secretly I want to.

_Why the drawings? _I want to ask._ Were you afraid you'd never see me again? Were you afraid I wouldn't come back? Or were you afraid you would die before I did?_

The plan I should have thought of suddenly unfolds before me. I delicately pick up his arm and place it at my waist. I tuck my leg in between his to help me from falling off the bed, and to be closer to him. I can do the one thing for Peeta that he wants above everything else. I'll be here when he wakes up.

* * *

Something familiar touches my cheek. Soft. Warm. So warm. It moves to my chin. It brushes over my collar bone. It's warm against my neck. It tickles under my ear and I squirm. The warm laughs. "Are you awake?" it asks.

I blink and he's there above me. I'm on my back and his arms are under my arms. His fingers touch my hair. His nose mere inches from my nose. He looks so much lighter than he did last night. I try not to let it fool me. My brain tells me the truth. It's my heart that talks. "Hi." My heart is not as smart as my brain.

Peeta's smile couldn't be any bigger, splitting his face in half. "You're here," he murmurs in disbelief. His heart talks, too.

A scratch to the side of my head is followed by a kiss on my nose.

"I said I was coming back, didn't I?" I tease. I know my heart is still talking because my brain wouldn't tease him right now. My brain would still be coming up with a plan. My brain would try to fix what is damaged.

"You're really here," he repeats, ignoring my teasing. His heart doesn't care if I tease him. A kiss on my forehead. His lips linger there. "I knew you'd come back."

My heart has no words. It never knows the right things to say anyway. My hands are better at talking. I place them on either side of his face and pull his mouth to cover mine. Any fear I have is forgotten. Nothing but safety exists here in Peeta's arms. Ultimately, that's why I crave his touch. My brain tells me not to lose myself in the luxury of that security because it knows I may lose it very soon. I push the thoughts aside. I tell my brain it is wrong. This may not fix everything, but it fixes something.

Peeta leans away from me. My lips follow blindly and he laughs again. He lies on his side and I roll over onto mine. He lets my head rest against his arm. "I missed you," he says barely above a whisper.

I lift my head up and glance at the drawings scattered on the wall. They're still there. They weren't a figment of imagination or sleep deprivation. "I can tell," I muse. It keeps his smile there.

"I wanted you to know I was thinking about you."

And I can't make fun of him for that. Not ever. "I was thinking of you, too." I place a brief kiss on his parted lips. It wasn't meant to be brief, but Peeta makes it that way.

"Was it a success?"

My head clouds up too much to understand. "What?"

"The mission? Were you successful?" he asks again.

_Oh._ How Peeta manages to think of such things is beyond me. Perhaps it's because he spent those days we were apart without any knowledge about what was happening and I spent those days living it, and now I wish I could forget it. "Yes," I respond quietly. Peeta sighs in relief, but my reaction to this news couldn't be more different. Yes, we succeeded. Annie is safe and the hospital is gone, as are the thousands of people that were inside. I'm able to push back the guilt for the time being. Peeta needs me and I won't be any help to him if I'm wallowing in guilt. "Annie is here. Madge was injured, but she's going to be fine," I finish. That's all he needs to know. That's all I want to say.

Peeta senses this. He doesn't push for more. "Good," he says. Despite all my guilt, I'm reminded some goodness exists in our sad, twisted plan. By causing such damage to the Capitol forces we earned freedom for the whole of Panem. That's why we did it. That's why Gale wouldn't let me risk the success of the mission for Peeta's sake. Peeta looks at me, his eyes so full of hope, and a surge of guilt floods over me for a different reason. I succeeded in the mission, but I failed _him_.

I feel my face flushing red; my eyes start to burn. I bury my face into his neck because that is the safest place I know. These are tears that I've been afraid to cry because they mean too much. They mean accepting defeat. "Peeta…," I whimper against his skin.

"Oh, hey. Katniss, don't cry," he says tenderly, but then he dares to laugh again. Does he think I'm just being overly emotional?

"Peeta…I'm so sorry," I sob.

"What are you sorry for?"

And then it all comes out. The things my brain says. "I tried to get Dr. Holden to come with. I tried to convince them, but they wouldn't listen. Gale said it was our one chance, I tried…I tried…"

Suddenly, Peeta holds me tighter because he knows I know the truth about his condition. I feel the heavy gulp in his throat. "Shhh. Don't cry," he attempts to soothe. His voice gets stuck and he stumbles. He speaks between kisses to the top of my head. "I'm okay. I'm fine."

I shake my head at his lie. He's not allowed to do that. Peeta doesn't lie to me.

"How did you know?" he questions.

If I hadn't mentioned my attempt at convincing Madge and Gale to help him, he would have assumed Prim or my mother told me. This also means he doesn't know we were contacted while on assignment. We were never supposed to be contacted. "Haymitch called me while we were in the Capitol."

"He called you?" Peeta exclaims. "Wow. He must have felt really guilty."

"What does he have to feel guilty about?" Other than sending me away while my husband was terribly ill? This bothers me, but I'm not sure it would bother Haymitch enough to call when it was so dangerous.

"It's not important," Peeta deflects.

I sniffle into his neck and he must think it disgusting. I wish this didn't keep happening over and over again; me crying over things that are hurting _him_ more than they are _me_. I don't want to show this weakness to Peeta, not when he needs me to be strong. "Are you in a lot of pain?"

Peeta leans back further so he can see my face. He starts swiping at the tears, even using the end of his sleeve to wipe my nose. "I don't want to talk about this," he says flatly.

Denial. It's Peeta's favorite emotional defense. That and outright altruism.

Peeta pushes my hair away from my face. It must look like a haystack at this point as most of it has fallen out of my braid. Peeta's hair sticks up on one side so I do him a favor and pat it down. "I told your mother about us," he says abruptly.

Without any explanation, I know what he told her because there's only one important secret we're keeping from her. I'm surprised at the relief I feel. I should be angry or something, since I made such a big deal over not telling anyone. But there's nothing in me that cares. The concern has been eclipsed by much bigger issues.

"She…um…," Peeta begins sheepishly. I can't for the life of me imagine why. "Discovered the contents of that drawer." He gestures to the nightstand behind me with a flick of his head.

Contents of the drawer? All that's in there are candles, matches, and…_oh_. "Oh my…," I gasp.

"Yeah," Peeta laughs, but clearly he doesn't think it's funny. "Thought she should know so she didn't murder me."

Now I'm doubly glad I wasn't here for the big reveal. As a healer my mother was inclined to have…talks with me, but they were basically clinical, and I was so convinced that it would never happen at the time. How are Peeta and I ever going to look my mother in the face?

Peeta reads my silence as something it's not. "Are you mad?" he asks.

"No, of course not," I assure him. Just mortified. "Gale knows. And Madge. Haymitch, too." And Annie and Dr. Holden, not that Peeta knows either of those people. I've gone back on my word more than Peeta has.

"That's fine. Prim is happy for us."

"No surprise there. I think she set us up."

"With the bread? Yeah, that girl is meant for espionage. Trust me."

We both laugh. Peeta rolls us over so he's on his back and I'm tucked comfortably into his side. I'll move when his arm goes numb, though he rarely tells me when that happens. We settle into the quiet as it seems we've run out of things to talk about. I don't want to go into more detail about the mission, and Peeta doesn't want to go into more detail about his illness. Things we need to talk about. Things emotionally well-adjusted people would talk about. Instead, we lie here, holding one another, feeling content with listening to the pattern of our steady breathing.

I take a closer observation of the drawings. One depicts two stubby candles and a loaf of bread. Even if Peeta didn't tell my mother about our toasting that drawing would have been a big clue. There's an image of me sitting at a table in the dining hall, picking at a sad pile of cold green beans. I remember complaining about how all the food in Thirteen tastes bland. Peeta decided that none of it is actually grown; it's all extruded from some kind of machine and painted different colors. Why make a drawing of that? It was such a silly conversation—silly like ping pong.

The drawings turn blurry. I close my eyes to keep from being overwhelmed, but sadly it doesn't work. Peeta's shirt will be stained with new tears.

"Katniss?" he whispers over the top of my head.

"Hm?" I hum back, my voice too shaky to speak.

"The war is going to be over soon, right? We're just waiting for their surrender?"

I nod into his chest. I fight the urge to suck in a sudden breath.

"Don't leave me again, please," he requests.

I hold him tighter. I hold him better than I ever have. My hold on him tells him everything he needs to know. I can't open my mouth because if I do my brain and my heart will say the same thing. _Don't leave me again, Peeta._

* * *

Prim wasn't kidding when she said Peeta sleeps a lot. We had breakfast brought in for us, and not long after that Peeta fell asleep again. I'd like to think it's because I was there to comfort him, but I'm afraid I'm fooling myself when I think that. It was the stiffness in my back that forced me to get out of bed, and it was my interest in not disturbing Peeta's slumber that drove me into the hallway, after a much-needed shower and change of clothes. I smelled like the cargo hold of a hovercraft, and although it wasn't carrying cabbages, for some reason I smelled like one.

The energy of Thirteen feels more solemn than it had before the mission, and it was never all that cheery to begin with. People generally pass me by without a glance. I can't say if it's out of respect for what's happening to Peeta or if they're just tense about the surrender that has not come yet. Haymitch didn't expect it to be immediate. He's more worried about strikes against the other districts.

Not very far from Peeta's room I notice someone I don't typically see in the hospital wing. Our encounters have always been in the training or conference rooms, but his unkempt, dark hair in unmistakable. Gale paces back and forth in front of a closed door, tugging at his hair now and again, and keeping his eyes on the floor. Even if I wasn't Gale's best friend, I'd be able to figure out what's going on.

I stop directly in his path. Gale gets a good look at my shoes before he looks up.

"Have you talked to her yet?" I ask without giving him a chance to deny his purpose for being here.

Gale takes a visible gulp and looks to the closed door. "I don't know what to say."

"I think a thank you might be in order."

"Wing is in there with her." He shrugs.

"Oh." I feel uncomfortable standing outside Madge's room with Gale—like I'm infringing on her privacy even through closed doors. And really, haven't I interfered in her life enough? I take Gale's arm and pull him down the hall a ways and sit us in a small waiting area outside some exam rooms. Gale immediately leans his elbows onto his knees and puts his fist at his mouth.

I don't know what Gale feels toward Madge for certain, as the only positive thing he's ever said about Madge is that it's obvious she's amazing. And he was piggybacking on someone else's comment when he said that. If Gale wants to do anything about that opinion, he needs to know exactly what he's dealing with, specifically, the man who originally made the compliment. "Wing is in love with her. You know that, right?" I ask, none too sensitively.

Gale's keeps a blank expression. "I know."

"Do you have feelings for her?" Again, getting straight to the point.

"No. Of course not," he scoffs dramatically. He sits back in his chair and folds his arms defensively, adding to the drama. "We can't even have a conversation without fighting."

"Have you ever tried?"

Gale rolls his eyes at me. "I don't have…she bugs the hell out of me," he stammers.

How long is he going to use that excuse? Does he think I didn't see what went on between the two of them in the Capitol?

"Then she goes and gets herself shot. She could have died," Gale grounds out, becoming increasingly agitated.

My turn to roll my eyes. Yes, it was a significant injury, but she was never in danger of dying, especially with Dr. Holden there. "She was shot in the _arm_," I point out.

"Had she been a half a second slower…"

I look to him to finish his sentence, but he doesn't. He leans forward again and palms both of his eyes. Is he actually _mad_ at Madge for saving his life? Gale isn't used to being the one who is saved. He's the one who does the saving. But there's something else that misdirects his anger. If he had been pushed out of the way of that bullet by Garrett, for example, Gale would thank him, but he'd be rational enough to understand that Garrett's life was never hanging in the balance. Put Madge in there as the wounded one and suddenly Gale is thinking up all these scenarios where Madge is in greater danger than she is. Why would he think that way? Even if I take Gale at his word and believe he doesn't have feelings for Madge, the only reason he would be so irrational is the same reason I'm worried about Peeta: He's scared.

I slide my hand down his back, resting my chin over his shoulder, even with an armrest in between us. "She's fine," I tell him. Gale lets his hands fall from his eyes, hanging his head between his shoulders. "I'm sure she's glad you were there to take care of her."

Gale shakes his head. He frowns. "She doesn't give a damn about me."

"That's not true. She cares a lot about what you think." Maybe too much. "She cares about _you_."

"She wasn't thinking when she did that. When she pushed me," he explains.

Now he's reduced Madge's grandiose gesture to a kneejerk reaction? Madge and Gale couldn't possibly be more off base with one another. I sit back and fold my arms. So much for not interfering.

"Then she wasn't thinking when she brought you morphling after you were whipped either?"

Gale blinks at me as he puts the puzzle together in his very, very thick head. "She…what?"

"You need to talk to her, and I don't mean banter or bicker with her, I mean _talk _to her. Ask her why she fights with you. Tell her what you actually think about her. Be honest for God's sake," I advise. Gale may be older, but I know this better than he does. "You never know when you might run out of time."

And because Gale is a good friend, my best friend, he asks. "He's not any better?"

I shake my head. I can feel my face flush again, so I change the subject. I haven't been able to talk to anyone about the results of the mission yet. "What's happening in the Capitol?"

"It's a mess," he replies, the agitation returns to his voice. "Their forces are trying to clean up the hospital grounds, but there's also rioting going on." The fears I developed after hearing the truth about the Capitol from Dr. Holden are confirmed. The criminals and the desperate people of the ghettos are taking advantage of the disaster. The Capitol is tearing itself apart. "There isn't anything the spies can do until Snow surrenders. They just have to watch it happen."

I try to remind myself that this was the point in us going. This is the result we expected and desired, but it doesn't help. All I can see is that stupid woman with the straw-like hair and broken pink fingernails trapped under a mountain of debris. Her and a thousand other nameless faces. "How are you dealing with it?" I ask quietly, staring blankly toward an exam room door.

"They had a shrink come talk to me for a while. I didn't know what he wanted me to tell him."

"Oh," I sigh. Perhaps Gale has better sense and can cope with this better than I can. He can separate his emotions from the outcome and the part we played in it. He is the revolutionary after all. Our victory is the thing he wants most. "Gale, I'm sorry I asked you to stay in the hospital." Instantly, I feel the need to take that back. I'm actually sorry I didn't kidnap a doctor on the way out. "That's a lie. I'm not sorry, I just—"

"I get it," he interrupts.

At least he forgives me for my betrayal to the cause. Though I wasn't successful, so I guess I didn't betray it after all.

I decide I should go back and see Peeta. He might be awake by now, and I don't want to risk not being there. I'm about to stand up when Gale suddenly speaks up.

"Madge was wrong."

"What?"

"When she said we were just doing a job, she was wrong. Killing someone…how do you…?" Gale's eyes shift to mine, searching for an answer to an unfinished question. He's asking me how I cope with murdering someone, since I'm the one who has committed that act. This is a first for Gale. I'm too slow in providing an answer, so Gale quickly mutters, "Never mind."

I put my hand back on his shoulder, letting him know it's okay for his soldier façade to come down, especially with me. "Sometimes I rationalize it. Like in the Games, it was the only choice I had. You had no choice but to take action against that Peacekeeper. He would have alerted everyone to our whereabouts. He would have killed us." I rattle off the reasons I'm certain Gale has already considered. He adds some more.

"I despise the Capitol. They put you in the Games. They destroyed our home." Gale's Adam's apple bobs. His shoulder becomes stiff under my hand. He keeps his eyes on the pile of ratted magazines on a coffee table in front of us. There's a picture of stream a and lush foliage on the cover. I think Gale and I desire to live that image as much as the citizens of Thirteen do.

"There was a woman on the elevator with us while we were going down to the basement level. She had this wild lime green hair and a dress covered in purple feathers." Gale waves his hand down his body as if he's the one wearing the purple dress. His lips are entertained by the fantastical image he has in his head. "She had these kids with her, two twin boys and a girl. She looked to be around seven or eight. The girl kept asking if she was going to get a shot and saying how she was scared. And the woman? She kept on promising the girl lollipops. That girl wasn't wearing a green wig and feathers. She was just a little girl."

Gale didn't see a mom with two twin boys and a girl. He saw Hazelle and Rory and Vick and Posy. Thinking back on it now, if there was any girl that was meant for Gale, it's Posy. He adores his sister, and she thinks he's made of stardust and moon beams. Posy is the only person Gale would let think something like that.

I wish Gale were saying this to the shrink and not me, because I'm certain the psychologist would be more qualified to help him than I am. But Gale can't talk like this to people he doesn't trust; that goes against his very nature. So I keep quiet and listen. The fact that he's saying the words out loud, to anyone, is an important step.

"After seeing the pictures and recordings," he murmurs sadly. I assume he's talking about pictures of the hospital aftermath. I haven't seen any. And we didn't see anything from the hovercraft. We were well out of the Capitol before the detonation took place. It was a very strange moment for all of us, knowing something so loud and violent was happening while we only heard the hum of the hovercraft.

"The greater good? Does it really justify it? We're like _them_." Gale says, moving his hand to cover his eyes. And today is the day that Gale Hawthorne feels compassion for the Capitol. He personally experienced the bombing in Twelve. He saw the people of our district die, but to be responsible for it is a different experience. And he feels it.

"It's not something you get over," I confess. Relatively speaking, very little time has passed between the moment I was reaped and now, but when I look at figures like Haymitch and Annie, I don't have much hope of recovery. "Peeta helps me. He reminds me of the good I still have in me, and of the good we can accomplish together."

"I want that," Gale whispers. And I can't believe it. Gale, the strongest, more self-reliant person I have ever known, the man who protected his family from starvation, outran a fire-bombing, and rose to the highest ranks of the rebellion, admits his weakness. No. Not weakness. His humanity. His need for comfort and healing. I'm sorry I can't be the person to provide it, but I desperately want there to be someone who can.

"Do you really think Madge is amazing?"

Gale hesitates, biting his lip. He's already admitted to it, so I know he's not hesitating to agree. By answering my question, he's committing himself down a different path—away from me, someone who was always a hopeless cause for him—and toward someone he might have a future with. I'm proud of him for taking the question seriously. If he's going to pursue Madge, she deserves his full attention. After nearly a minute passes, he finally nods.

"Then you have to tell her that. Every day."

Gale nods again, taking my instruction decisively. He pauses for a second to relax, takes a breath, and psyches himself up for…well, what I can only guess will be an interesting conversation. I follow behind him as he approaches Madge's door, but I stay a few feet away and lean against the wall so Madge won't see me. Maybe she'll think he came to this conclusion on his own. It can only help. A few quick raps to her door. It opens. And Gale and I are idiots because of course it's Wing who answers, not Madge. We even knew he was in there.

"Wild Man," Wing says in a friendly way, but not in an exactly welcoming manner. His use of the nickname proves that.

"I wanted to speak to Madge, alone, if that's alright with her," Gale requests.

I sigh in relief. Thank God for tactful moments which occur so rarely when men are involved. Madge must have said yes because Wing steps aside, allowing Gale access.

"I'll see if I can find that deck of cards for you, okay Ace?" Wing says before he closes the door. He stands there for a few seconds, a definite look of distaste crossing his features. It doesn't fit his usual good-humored demeanor and I'm suddenly filled with remorse for a different reason. I pushed Gale to put his heart on the line after Wing had already done so. I silently vow to never be involved in someone else's love triangle ever again.

Wing starts walking in my direction. He smiles when he sees me and I struggle to return it. I wish I could melt into the wall.

"Hey, Little Bird. I'm going to see if I can find a deck of cards for Madge," he repeats to me.

"That's sweet of you, Wing." Because it is.

"Maybe we could all play a game with Peeta later on? If he's feeling up to it?" he proposes.

More sweet. It feeds the guilt in my stomach. "Peeta would like that. I think he'd even be good competition for Madge."

"He'd be the first," he grins.

I don't know if there is a subtext behind the words Wing chooses, as if he's inferring that there's also no competition for Madge's heart. He may know better than me. Gale and Madge might be too far gone to repair the damage to their tenuous relationship. They'll be lucky to be friends at the end of it, not that they were ever friends to begin with. I'm left considering this, wondering which path Madge will choose. One side tips the scales significantly, until I catch the glint of Wing's silver ring on his finger as he walks by.

* * *

It only took Prim a few nights of sitting in Peeta's uncomfortable guest chair before she requested something more comfy. And it only took an hour before a well-used, but soft, horseshoe shaped chair was delivered to Peeta's room. I should be more concerned about the influence Prim possesses around here, but the chair is such a nice change, I can't bring myself to care.

In the early afternoon, I have my legs tucked underneath me as I sit in the chair while looking at books Prim must have brought in from Thirteen's substantial library. One appears to be a textbook, a very old one at that. I mostly look at the pictures because I can't wrap my head around what the text says. There's so much prosperity in the images, not just one Capitol, but hundreds. Although, every few chapters, the prosperity falls to ruin after what I assume are wars or natural disasters. I have no knowledge of any of these events, and the book feels more like a fairy tale than history.

"You're bored," Peeta says from his bed. He has a drawing board and a fresh sheet of paper on his lap.

"I'm not bored," I insist. I spend a lot of time in Peeta's room, forgoing the meetings with Haymitch and Plutarch or the training sessions with the army in preparation for the surrender. There are things I want to know, but my place is here. I made a promise.

"You are. I can tell."

I'm not really bored. Sure, I can get a little stir crazy during one of Peeta's many naps, but when he's awake I'm the furthest thing from bored, for the most part. Peeta's drawing board tips a little and I see that although he's had new paper for twenty minutes now, he hasn't drawn a single stroke. "Peeta, are you trying to say that _you're _bored?" I inquire.

"Maybe a little," he shrugs.

"Oh my goodness! Alert the masses!" I pretend to shout. "Peeta Mellark has finally bored himself of drawing pictures of Katniss! I never thought this day would come." I lean my chin on my palm and grin at him.

Peeta rolls his eyes. "I'm not bored with drawing you. Being trapped in this room doesn't give me much inspiration."

When I look over Peeta's previous drawings hanging on the wall I note that most of them depict us actually doing things, not just laying around, which is all Peeta's been able to do. However, I do take him around in his wheelchair twice a day. He has another trip planned today, but that won't be for another hour. "You're not going to trick me into walking you around outside of your schedule," I inform him. He needs to take more tips from Prim if he wants to be truly persuasive.

"Come on, Katniss. Be a rebel," he taunts.

"No," I state before I turn back to my book. I observe a picture of a statue of a green woman holding fire. Huh.

Peeta groans like a child, and luckily for him, I'm more amused by it than I am annoyed.

"Then you have to give me something to draw," he persists.

"Like what?"

Peeta thinks for a moment. I look up from my book. He's staring at me with a heart melting smirk at the corner of his mouth. "Tell me about your dreams."

"My dreams?" I'm taken aback. My dreams are generally something I don't like to talk about, especially when they involve my face being gnawed on by rats. Peeta reads my disgust.

"Not your bad dreams," Peeta explains. "Your hopes, your goals, your aspirations."

My eyes drop back down to the open pages of the book. This is worse than talking about my nightmares. He can't honestly want me to talk about the future. "Peeta…," I whisper, but find myself unable to continue. I don't even want to consider it.

"Remember when you asked me what I thought our future would have been like had you actually been in love with me after the Games?"

"Yes, I remember," I respond, very quickly regretting ever asking the question.

"Well, I want to know the answer to the same question. Only the timeframe is now and you actually love me."

"Most days," I grumble. It's moments like this when I seriously reconsider.

I don't want to do this. I don't think I can. How can I talk about the future that I want with Peeta when I know…when he knows it's…not…

I snap my book shut, trying to keep calm, but my frantic voice betrays me. "Why don't I find us a game or something? They must have something other than chess." I stand up from the chair, but it's been placed so close to Peeta's bed he snags my wrist before I can walk away. I know Peeta is physically too weak to hold me back, but he doesn't need physical strength to keep me tied to him.

"Katniss, please? This is what I want," he pleads gently, stroking my wrist with his thumb.

I'm afraid of how much this conversation could hurt us both. I hope that if Peeta can endure it, I can too. I take a few seconds to calm my voice and relax the tightening muscles in my chest and throat. I sit in the chair again, taking my hand back. I set the book aside on the nightstand. Peeta knows I'm stalling, but he doesn't press on. He waits patiently while I come up with an answer.

I surprise myself when I realize, I don't think I have one. Peeta was my future, that was certain, but actually getting him to me and staying alive was such an effort I never thought about the specifics that came with a future. Peeta always had, even when our feelings weren't mutual. So, what exactly do I want with Peeta? "Um…," I start off ever so eloquently. "A house."

"What kind of house?" he replies.

"A small one."

"You're going to have to be a bit more specific." He taps his paper with a pencil.

"Not as large as our mansions in Victor's Village, but bigger than the shacks in the Seam. A cabin, maybe?" I say in a small voice, not at all certain. This is the first time I've ever given these thoughts any sort of concrete imagery. It's still hazy.

"In the woods?" Peeta asks.

"Well, I prefer solitude. I don't know if you could handle it, being a merchant and everything," I tease. It doesn't throw him off the question.

"I don't mind solitude with you." His smirk is absolutely evil and my cheeks turn red for a different reason. "What else is in our house?"

"Basic things." The picture sharpens into solid colors and shapes. The house is an expansion of my house in the Seam, as that is the place I associate most with home, but everything is cleaner, brighter. There are a few amenities that Peeta would want, like a shower, because of his slightly privileged upbringing, but for the most part it's simple. I start naming off the furniture I see. "A stove, a kitchen table, a sink, a dresser—"

"A bed?" Peeta interrupts.

I just roll my eyes at him. Obviously.

"Yeah. A nice, big bed. One much better than this one," Peeta comments as he shifts around. I can't imagine how sore his back must be by now. "What else?"

Peeta's excited for another answer, but after thinking about his sore back, the stream of thoughts abruptly stop. "I don't know. This is stupid," I snap. "I mean, who knows what kind of place we'll live in or where or if any district will even be habitable at the end of this." _Or if you'll even be there._

"I don't want you to think about that. These are dreams we're talking, fantasies," Peeta reiterates. "What do you _want_ to see?"

I don't want to disappoint him by telling him my brain doesn't work the way his does. I don't think in terms of fantasies and dreams. I haven't since my father died. I try to see the fuzzy painting my brain was beginning to form. There's a cabin, in the forest; it's rustic, but comfortable. Although it's not clear, I think I'm in love with it. "Well, I guess I wouldn't mind a porch with a swing," I muse. Suddenly, the idea becomes sketched into the picture in my mind. I fall in love a little bit more. "Where we could watch the sunset."

Peeta sighs. He holds his hand out over the edge of the bed. Once I've placed my hand in his he leans forward and kisses my knuckles several times. "That's a good dream," he murmurs in between kisses. "I like this game. Tell me more." He leans back again. I reluctantly let him go.

"I can't think of anything else," I confess with a shake of my head. I'm not as good at this game as he is.

"Kids?" he suggests.

I laugh, recognizing that this was a conversation we should have had before we were married. Peeta and I can't seem to do much of anything in order.

My fingers twitch as a new blurry image bounces into my head. A baby. One that's Peeta's and mine. I should be keyed up by the prospect of a baby, right? However, after spending so many years positive I would never have children, a baby kind of goes against the grain of my sensibilities. I also recall the rush of emotion I felt during that night Peeta and I were together, when a baby suddenly didn't feel like a burden, it felt like a gift we could share as husband and wife. I'm more rational in the fluorescent light of day, but I can't dismiss that feeling. All I can say is, "Maybe."

"I'd like that." Peeta actually has to bite his lip to keep from smiling like an idiot. He still looks like an idiot.

"I know you would," I scoff. Peeta probably dreams of scads of children. Why wouldn't he when he doesn't have to be the one to push them out? Men.

"Is it a boy or a girl?"

"You already knocked me up with one imaginary baby. You want another one?" I mean it as a joke, but when Peeta's face loses its excitement, I regret it. He doesn't want this to be a joke. He doesn't want to only see his own vision of what our future could be; he wants a shared vision. "I think I'd be better with a boy, don't you?" I add without the sarcastic tone. "I could teach him to hunt."

Peeta smiles a little, but it's not as big as before. "You could do that with a girl, too."

"Unless she's like Prim and can't stand to swat a fly," I say.

Peeta's smile widens; the damaging effects of my sarcastic comment forgotten. His eyes drift off toward the drawings. His smile keeps growing. I can see everything he's thinking on his face.

"You want a girl," I deduce.

"Doesn't matter." He shrugs. "But to have my own little version of you sounds…nice."

"You shouldn't have a girl. She'd be the most spoiled thing ever. She'd have you wrapped around her finger so quick." The vision is especially clear to me in this detail. Even without knowing her face I can see her done up in dresses and ribbons surrounded by toys. How we got them in a cabin in the woods, I can't say.

"Like the way I'm wrapped around your finger?"

"You never do anything I say," I huff. I'm exaggerating, but I have examples.

"Doesn't mean I'm not wrapped around your finger," he confirms. He picks up his drawing board and still clean piece of paper and sets it on the ground beside his bed. He turns on his side and silently beckons me to move closer. I scoot to the edge of my seat, leaning my elbows and my head onto his mattress. Peeta cups my cheek with one hand, skimming my lips with his thumb. "You'll be such a good mother," he whispers.

The way he phrases it pulls me out of the fantasy theme of our talk. I feel a tightness in my throat again. The same one as before that told me not to start this conversation in the first place. Peeta says I'll be a good mother like it's certain that I'm going to be a mother one day, but that doesn't work. Peeta and I both know what's happening to him, what won't happen for us. Suddenly the girl, the cabin, and the porch swing all disappear. My future returns to a hazy void.

"And you'll be a good father," I whisper back. I don't know what makes me say it or who I'm trying to convince. But no vision exists when Peeta isn't there. I want that vision back. "You'll be the best father." He doesn't disagree. For once, I'm thankful to be lied to.

* * *

"Peeta! Wake up! Please!" I scream. He doesn't normally thrash around when he has a nightmare. In fact, I wouldn't know he had any if he didn't tell me himself. But here he is, squeezing his eyes shut and whipping his body back and forth across the bed, breathing like he can't get air into his lungs.

And he won't wake up.

"Peeta! Wake up," I beg, my voice cracking with panic. "Please, Peeta!" I shake his shoulder. It does nothing. I try to touch his face, covered in sweat, but he jerks away from me. He moans something about putting out the fire under his skin.

"Help! Someone help me!" I scream at the door. No one comes. It's very late and sometimes the people who are supposed to be working fall asleep at the on call desk. I need to find someone, but I'm terrified to leave him alone while he's trapped in his head with the monsters. "Peeta," I plead once more with another useless shake.

I search around the room for some kind of solution. There's nothing different from the way it's sat for months, except for a pitcher of water leftover from dinner. I pluck it from the nightstand and throw the contents over his face. Peeta abruptly stops thrashing. His eyes blink open in confusion while his breath continues to rush out in heavy pants. I thrust one hand under his neck and hoist him up a little. I cup the side of his face with my free hand.

"Peeta?" I ask, hoping it will help him come back to me. How could Peeta stand to do this night after night for me?

Peeta's eyes dart up and down my face several times. Then he rips his body from my grip, letting his head fall over the side of the bed, and empties the sick from his stomach.

* * *

I never thought I'd hold a gun in my hands again so soon.

_Bang! Bang! Bang!_

The target resets with a new paper outline of a human figure.

"Nice shot," someone says over my shoulder.

The voice is muffled by my ear protection. I safely set the gun down on the counter before I turn around. Finnick stands behind me, looking so much like his old self I nearly cringe at his beauty.

"Then again, you were always a good shot," he adds.

I turn back around and start the process of exchanging my empty magazine for a new one. I'd rather shoot with a bow, but Thirteen doesn't have any use for archery training. "What are you doing down here?" I question. What business does Finnick have in the training areas? He has no mission to prepare for.

"Heard you had a rough night," Finnick says.

_Great. _New fodder for the gossip chain. As if chatting about my love life wasn't enough. I lift up my reloaded gun and take out another immobile target.

"We haven't had a chance to talk yet," Finnick says after the paper drawing is sufficiently dead. "I was hoping we could do that now."

A new target.

"I'm busy."

"Really? You'd rather be doing this?" he says warily.

"This is where they sent me." That's not entirely true. I mean, I could have gone anywhere I wanted, they just suggested I go somewhere I could clear my head. Not having a forest or animals to hunt I'm left with target practice.

Finnick nudges himself inside the walls of my little booth, not standing in front of me, but standing where I can't ignore him. "Come on. I'll get you a cup of coffee."

Really? That's the best line I can earn from Finnick Odair these days?

"Do you like sugar in your coffee?" He leers.

And there it is.

I remove the earmuffs and set them beside the gun. Upon closer inspection I see that Finnick's hair has been trimmed, adding to the overall improvement to his good looks. I wonder if it was Annie who cut his hair. He must really love her if he trusts her with a pair of scissors in her hand.

Silently, Finnick leads me away from the shooting range and out of the training level. He's remarkably patient with me and doesn't talk until we're in the dining hall sitting across from one another at a table. It's getting close to lunchtime and people are beginning to trickle in. There's a stench of garlic in the air and I feel it sticking to my clothes.

"Why did they send you out?" he asks after taking a sip from his paper cup.

"They wanted to try some procedure. My mother thought it would be easier if I wasn't in the room."

"Because it's painful?" he asks.

I pick up my cup of coffee and take a sip. I burn my mouth, but it hurts less than the answer to Finnick's question. "How is Annie?" I ask.

"She's getting better. She wasn't as heavily medicated as she's been in the past, thankfully. She'll get through it." Finnick fights a smile because he knows I won't smile back. "It's incredible to have her with me again. I almost can't believe it."

I remember that feeling. I didn't have it when I came back to Thirteen.

"Thank you, Katniss," he says quietly, but genuinely. There's no trace of that Odair snark and charm he's so well known for. However, now that I think about it, other than the sugar comment I haven't heard him talk like that since the Games. The fact that the charm has returned, even in small amounts, shows how vital Annie's presence is to his happiness.

"No need," I reply. I can't stomach his thanks. I'm happy Annie is safe and with Finnick, but thinking of the mission brings me images of blonde doctors, and now, little girls asking for lollipops.

Finnick sets his cup down, but keeps his hands on it. His eyebrows contract, marring his perfect beauty. "What happened to Peeta last night, I don't think it was a nightmare," he says so softly I almost don't hear him.

"Then what was it?"

"I think it was a flashback or a panic attack. Probably both."

"Peeta doesn't have flashbacks," I respond automatically. But there was something off about what happened last night. Peeta doesn't react physically to his nightmares and there's the question of why I couldn't wake him up. Prim told me I needed to talk to Peeta about his nightmares when I first arrived, but I haven't been able to bring myself to do so nor has Peeta brought it up.

"Katniss, I told Peeta what happened to him in the Capitol while you were gone. He remembers," Finnick says flatly.

I understand why he brought me to the dining hall and away from the shooting range. An intense surge of anger pulses though me so quickly it's likely I would have shot him. The only thing keeping me from lunging across the table at him is the people sitting down for lunch. Still, that's only holding me back so much. "Why would you tell him? I told you not to." My voice rises above the voices of the people around us. A couple who was headed toward a table adjacent to ours veer off in a different direction.

Finnick leans over the table so he can lower his voice. "He was adamant about it. He wanted to know. I thought it would give him some peace of mind, but it completely backfired."

"Of course it did!" I hiss. I never should have left Peeta behind with these people. They can't follow a simple instruction. How could they let this happen? It was a blessing that Peeta didn't remember what happened to him and they brought it all back. All that torture and violence? I want to break something. I want to break Finnick's face.

To his credit, Finnick does appear contrite for his actions; that's what his sagging eyebrows and puppy dog eyes are saying.

"Last night wasn't the first time it's happened, is it?" I question.

"No. He had an…uh…episode immediately after I told him. And once more during a meeting with Plutarch and Haymitch."

"So, do you think he'll be like Annie now?" I ask too harshly. It makes Finnick flinch.

"I don't know. Maybe it won't be that severe. More than likely it'll get better over time," he says encouragingly, but then his face turns contrite once again. Time. How can it get any better? We have so little time.

I turn away, needing to catch my breath.

"He will have to be a little more careful," Finnick continues. "If it does happen, just talk him through it. Tell him it's going to end and he's going to be safe again. That's what works with Annie." Finnick speaks the truth. That's what I did with Annie in the Capitol, though I more or less fumbled through it and merely hoped I wasn't doing more harm than good.

"Were you there for him? When he had the panic attacks?" I pant into my chest.

"Yeah," Finnick responds sadly, like he's making an apology.

Finnick rescued Peeta. I saved Annie. We've done more for one another than any person could ask of a friend. "Thank you for helping him. Every time you helped him."

"You're welcome, Katniss."

When I get to Peeta's room, I find out the procedure is finished and Peeta is asleep. It was some kind of blood exchange. I know I should pay better attention when they're talking about Peeta's health, but I didn't understand what it was supposed to do, and my mother said it was a good idea, and I trust her. On this matter I trust her. Peeta's complexion is a little brighter, but that's the only noticeable difference I see.

I pace back and forth at the foot of his bed. I'm making too much noise and I'm going to wake him up if I'm not quieter. I'm like Gale in this moment. I need to move or the energy inside me will drive me insane. I'm still angry at Finnick. I'm angry at Peeta. Why would he _ask_ for such a burden? Did he lose all common sense while I was gone? It's not fair to him. It's not fair to me. There's only so much strain the mind can take before it breaks.

I stop in my tracks. I crumple to the floor. The panic attacks? Flashbacks? What is that, if not his mind reaching its breaking point?

My tears combine with the dust and dirt on the cold floor. The smudges get onto my hands and eventually my face when I wipe at my tears. My body shakes as I'm wracked with sobs. I cry though my anger. I cry through my grief. I cry over everything that's wrong. I never wanted to be responsible for the deaths of so many innocent people. I don't want Cinna and Johanna to be dead. I don't want my home to be completely wiped off the face of the earth.

I cry for the one thing I had, the one thing which was returned to me, Peeta. Not because he is wrong, because it's wrong that he was subjected to such punishment, that he remembers it, which means I must now remember it. I can't pretend it didn't happen. I can't pretend any of it didn't happen.

* * *

Peeta sleeps for a long time. It's a good thing. By the time he rouses, my face is dry. I crawled my way into the horseshoe chair and mostly stared at the spot on the floor that's been dusted clean because of my collapse.

Peeta's thirsty when he wakes up so I get him some water. He sips it for a few moments and says he feels better, more energized, less pain. It's an improvement, but my mother made it clear that the treatment wasn't a cure.

"Can we talk about what happened last night?" I say quietly. I sound exhausted, which is disappointing because Peeta actually sounds somewhat energetic for once.

He sets his glass on the nightstand. "What do you mean?" he hedges. Typical.

"I mean, can we talk about the flashback you were having?"

Peeta, who was looking so strong and optimistic, visually deflates. He slouches into his pillows, of which he has several more than he did before I left. Prim must have requested them.

"Why didn't you tell me?" I ask, my voice sounding raspy. I take a sip of water from his glass.

"It's not a big deal." He sighs.

"I didn't know what was happening to you," I say warily. An hour ago my lip would be quivering, but after the time I spent on the floor, I'm basically drained. "I thought you were having a nightmare, but then I couldn't get you to wake up. Do you understand how scared I was?"

Peeta analyzes his hands resting on his lap.

"You can't lie to me," I say sternly.

"I wasn't lying," Peeta immediately responds, his voice taking on an edge I haven't heard in weeks, months even. "I just didn't tell you. I didn't want you to worry."

"Don't pull that with me," I snap. "I've had more than enough of people protecting me for my own good."

"You were doing the same thing when you refused to tell me," Peeta scoffs. He may be accurate, but that means nothing.

"And I was right!" I shout. Peeta rolls his eyes. If it's in disagreement, I'm not sure. I know I'm right. The things being kept from me didn't cause me further damage when I eventually found them out. "Why did you even ask Finnick?"

"I don't know," Peeta says tersely, his frustration escalating. "I didn't like not knowing. What if there was something in my memories that could have helped you or the whole rebellion itself and I didn't know it?"

I give him a chance. "Was there anything?"

A pause. Then truth. "No," he grounds out reluctantly.

"We have to more careful now. Avoid the things that might bring on the flashbacks."

"I know. I get it," he gripes. His hands are thrown up in frustration before rubbing over his eyelids like he has a headache coming on.

Even though I'm right, and even though Peeta made a mistake, I don't feel good about it. I'll never feel good about anything that causes Peeta to suffer. On top of that, this is the best he's felt in days and I sapped all his energy by picking a fight with him. Our first married fight. Coming to this realization takes all the fight out of me. I move to sit on the edge of his mattress facing him. I gently pull his hand from his eyes and place it in my lap. His forehead doesn't smooth out right away so I touch the wrinkles there until his face relaxes. "I wish you would have told me. I would have taken better care of you."

"Katniss, look at me," he says with a defeated shrug. "I'm confined to a bed and I can't walk to the bathroom on my own. All you do is take care of me."

I lean forward and brush my lips over the twitching creases in his forehead. "That's what we've always done," I whisper. Take care of each other. Before the war, before the Games, before we were friends.

Peeta gently tilts my face, pressing his lips to mine. Quick sweeps of his tongue guide us into our own escape from the madness. His hands slide down my shoulders, pausing for a moment to grip my arms, and then they continue on their path downward until they find my waist. He slips under the hem of my top and his fingers softly caress the skin of my lower back. There's an apology in his touch. There's a sweetness coupled with a slight bit of urgency, but that's always been there. However, there's now a sharpness connected to that urgency because even Peeta can't take me out of reality completely, not after what we've been speaking about.

I pull away. When he follows I cup my hand over his cheek and sweep my thumb over his lips. "Do you know what set off the attack?"

Peeta exhales his disappointment. He leans back again, taking his hands with him. "I think I had a fever."

"Just a fever?"

"I woke up. You were asleep. I was really warm and uncomfortable." Peeta's forehead creases yet again. Before I can address it he moves toward me and returns his hands to their place on my back. My skin providing comfort I didn't know it could. "Something about being so warm brought back this sensation of an intense heat moving under my skin." Peeta's fingers dig into my flesh a little, not enough to be painful, but enough to make me nervous. "And before I could tell myself it wasn't real, it felt real. It felt so real." His hands grip me with more force. I feel the strain in his arms and see it on his face.

I quickly wrap my arms over his shoulders, pulling his face into the crook of my neck. "It wasn't real. That's never going to happen to you again. I'll keep you safe."

Peeta moves his arms to hold me close. He presses his face to my neck, then my chest, then back to neck, rocking us ever so slightly. When his tense muscles loosen and his breathing is even, I know this is the moment when I learn to comfort with more than touch, with words. This is the day I make good on that promise I made so long ago. I'll lock him up in my arms where no one can hurt him.

"I'm sorry I'm this way."

I know what he means. I know I should yell at him. I should tell him what ridiculous thing that is to say, but I don't want to fight. That's over with. And from what I've heard, after married couples fight, they play. "What way? A dimwitted man who doesn't listen to his wife? Peeta, I wouldn't dare expect anything more."

A laugh against my skin. A kiss to my shoulder. White teeth and a smile. For an instant, there's no wrong, there's only right.


	15. Failure

A/N: Hello kittens. Apologies for the long wait.

I was interviewed on Muttations Podcast! It was very fun and many thanks to Bretney and Josh for inviting me to take part. Listen to episode 14 on iTunes to hear me yak endlessly about HG fanfiction.

Enough with my ego. Let me comment on how amazing Medea Smyke is and how lucky I am she has a job where she can beta while she works. If you're not reading her stories, please flounce me and head over there.

**Failure**

It's the very, very early morning of the fifth day since the hospital went down. Nothing has changed—that is, the change we were hoping for has not yet transpired. The familiar way Haymitch swishes the brown liquid in his paper cup before he tosses it back reminds me of the rebellion's stagnant position.

"Hi sweetheart. Having trouble sleeping?" Haymitch slurs from his usual spot at the head of the conference table. People are skittering back and forth behind me from room to room as I hover in the doorway—mostly soldiers dressed in uniform. They make up the third shift of people who are at the ready in case we receive word of the Capitol's submission. There must be a team of people ready at all times to move out into the Capitol and the districts to give direction and medical assistance if needed. One might think that Haymitch is holding a party to commemorate our victory, except for the fact that he's _alone_ with a silver flask and a paper cup.

I massage a rotten crick in my neck. "My neck is sore," I grumble. A stiff neck is not the only thing that causes my insomnia, although it does not help. It's one of the million reasons I can't sleep. A group of women in dark uniforms march down the hall, casting a pointed glance at me. If it's sympathy for Peeta or awe over my actions in the Capitol, I can't tell. I don't know what the glances mean anymore.

"Any word on the surrender?" I grind out, my voice a combination of desperation and drowsiness. I fear I know the answer, but I ask anyway.

Haymitch gruffly swipes the back of his hand over his lips and days old scruff. "These drinks aren't celebratory," he says with a sardonic grin. A chair roughly jumps out from where Haymitch must have kicked it from under the table. "Take a seat."

I glance over my shoulder down the dimly lit hall. Another group of uniformed soldiers are plodding my way. I feel silly and defenseless in my flimsy pajamas. Maybe that's why those female soldiers were staring just now—why is a person so thin and helpless the image of a rebellion? Choosing Haymitch's smelly presence over the eyes of strangers I quickly dart inside the doorway and stand against the wall. I hold my breath until the sound of their heavy boots goes by.

I shouldn't be here. I _should_ go back to my room. Peeta doesn't like it when I'm gone, but if I'm being realistic, he'll never know I left. He sleeps like a rock. It's coming to the point that he sleeps for more hours than he's awake. I have a rapidly growing fear that one of these mornings he's not going to wake up. Who could sleep with that thought on their mind?

The rigid chair Haymitch so lovingly prepared for me irritates the ache in my neck and reminds me of my stiff lower back. The cold metal seeps through my thin pajama pants and I shiver against it. Haymitch smirks and pours brown liquor from a flask into the paper cup. Instead of taking a sip, he places it in front of me.

"Have a drink. It'll warm you up."

I wrap my hand around the cup and take a sniff, just to humor him. Haymitch and I are old drinking buddies, after all. The sharp and spicy scent assaults my nose. It's not altogether unpleasant, but I remember my last excruciating drinking experience and the queasiness in my stomach compels me to set the cup down.

"News?" I inquire. I've neglected to come to any meetings since we returned from the mission. I've had more important things to attend to.

"A large percentage of Peacekeepers and residents have been pulled from District 3 into the Capitol," he replies, tipping the flask from side to side to hear the liquid swish around. I question why he bothered with the paper cup, as if using it instead the flask alone gives some kind of sophistication to his solitary drunkenness.

"What does that mean?" I ask. The Peacekeeper and mother of five who moved us safely through the district? Is she amongst them?

"Hard to say. Looks like more clean-up for the hospital. Most of the rioting has stopped."

I consider that a good thing, even though it's not a victory for the rebellion. Riots, after the tragedy of the hospital, added blood to an already horrifying circumstance. I don't want their blood on my hands.

"Do you know what happened to Dr. Holden?" I ask quietly.

"He got out of the hospital. But we haven't heard anything from him since the building went down."

"_Should _you have heard something?"

Haymitch sniffs and slouches against the back of his chair. His hold on the flask tightens for a brief moment. "Yeah," he murmurs before putting the flask to his lips.

I do not know if Haymitch knew the doctor. My relationship with Dr. Holden was short, and I hate him for not considering coming with us to Thirteen to help Peeta, but I won't deny he was a good man. Not only a hero to the rebellion, but a kind person. Dr. Holden dreamed, perhaps foolishly, of returning to a world where people would trust one another and look for ways to help others before helping themselves. Which is why it is doubly sickening that he has more than likely fallen to the violence he wished to end. Despite his education, his money, and his celebrity, he died in the same fashion as his mother and brother.

"What is he waiting for?" I whisper hurriedly. Haymitch responds by taking another pull from the flask. How can Snow watch his own city fall apart before his eyes? And if he doesn't desire surrender, why doesn't he respond? It's not like the Capitol to procrastinate on making a decision. Seventy-six years ago, Thirteen was found to be full of treasonous dissenters and it was destroyed. Almost a year ago, we escaped from the Hunger Games arena and consequently District Twelve was annihilated. Snap decisions. Yet on his last legs, Snow draws this hostility out like he's fighting off an infection. Human nature I guess; if one could call Snow _human_.

And if Snow ultimately doesn't respond or we don't capture him, if the war extends another six months, what was the point of destroying the hospital? The injured and the sick did not deserve that fate. Everyone claimed it was the right thing to do because it was the _only_ option. Well, if this effort fails, what is our next option? What could possibly be worse that what we've already done? What _I've_ done?

"You look like you have something to say," Haymitch drawls. My thoughts must have crossed over my face. Haymitch has always been able to read me.

"I should ring your neck," I snap, folding my arms tight against my body.

"Idle threats," he scoffs.

"Why did you even send me on that mission? What was the point? I didn't do anything and it obviously didn't make any difference!" I seethe through my teeth. The sound of shoes scuffling echoes from the hall. Haymitch's glassy eyes glance toward it. I must have spoken too loudly and drawn a scene. I don't remove my glare from Haymitch though. He put this responsibility and guilt on me. He's going to own up to it.

Haymitch leans forward onto the table and sets the flask down, his demeanor very serious. "Drink," he orders. I don't move. I don't blink. My eyebrows draw closer together though. "It'll help you sleep," he adds. No wonder he's serious. He's talking about the recuperative qualities of alcohol. Despite my unpleasant past with drinking, the temptation of a sleep aid is astoundingly appealing. I pick up the cup and swallow half the contents as quickly as possible. If the liquor is of better quality or taste than the white liquor from Twelve, I have no idea. All I recognize is the familiar burning sensation as it hits my stomach. I only cough a little this time. Haymitch smirks slightly at this, like I did him proud.

He settles himself back into his chair, but leaves the flask behind. His expression is flat and his eyes empty of the shininess caused by the liquor. If not for his breath, flushed skin, and matted hair, one might think the man is sober. In a way, he is. Not physically, but mentally. The situation we are in would sober any alcoholic. "You went on that mission," he begins, sounding hoarse. He takes a moment to clear his throat. "Because we needed you to do it," he explains in the clipped tone he uses when I've exasperated him. I'm inclined to believe him, I suppose. The one thing Haymitch has done continually is keep _me_ alive. Maybe he was behind the over-protectiveness I felt on the mission as much as Madge was. In fact, the only reason we were ever in danger is because I screwed up. Haymitch has been protecting me for a long time. It was wrong of me to think he'd ever stopped.

"You're too thickheaded to understand," Haymitch says bitingly. I open my mouth to defend myself, but he's not finished. "We have our allies, but not everyone trusted that you were alive. They didn't even fully believe photos; claimed they could have been faked. But eye witness reports are different, especially when they come from within the network, not just us. Word spread throughout the districts and people's spirits took off. Support for you…" Haymitch breaks off and shakes his head, like it baffles him to be admitting this. "…unites us." He chuckles to himself, picking up the flask and taking a drink. Well, I suppose laughter coupled with alcoholism as a reaction to the situation is preferable to _depression_ and alcoholism.

I take another sip of my drink, leaving a shallow pool coating the bottom of the cup. I don't cough this time, but I make a face. Haymitch snickers at me and something about his wheezy, drunken, ridiculous sniggering provokes a laugh from my chest. Is this what it feels like when hysteria sets in? I should ask Annie.

"A goddamn teenager," Haymitch mutters under his breath.

Oh, the fun times we have together.

"I do understand," I correct him. I saw the way the Peacekeeper in Three looked at me. The spies in the quarantine; Dr. Holden; the short, sweaty Peacekeeper in the hospital who would have killed us; the soldiers in Thirteen, they all look at me with the same shock and awe and astonishment. They see the symbol of heroism that they want to see and that's the reason they continue to support me. Even after murdering tributes and now the hospital.

I didn't _need_ to ask Haymitch why he sent me. I can't escape the identity that was created when I stepped in for my sister. I just never wanted it, and I still don't. "But I wish it wasn't me," I whisper with my lips pressing against my cup.

Haymitch grunts in reply. I think it's the closest I will ever get to an apology from him for the part he played in the direction my life has gone. It's more than I ever expected.

"But it won't be enough. Panem need leaders, and that's not me," I argue. Anyone who's ever met me would realize that. And Panem can't survive on the faith they have in the Mockingjay.

Haymitch laughs outright. "Don't worry about it. You're not going to be paraded around the country, not unless you want to." Haymitch brings up a truly disgusting scenario. It would be like the victory tour all over again. I wouldn't be in fear of my life, but the underlying premise of creating a show for the masses would be exactly the same. The scowl on my face is not from the drink. "That's what I thought," Haymitch observes.

For the first time, I truly wonder what I've missed from the meetings I've skipped. Have there been arguments over how I should be utilized? Was going to the Capitol the least of the action I could have taken on? How much has Haymitch kept from me? I don't ask or argue with him about this. He'll just deny it.

I tip the last of Haymitch's precious brown liquor into my mouth and swallow before I can taste it. I don't feel much different, aside from the aftertaste of the alcohol in my mouth. I didn't drink enough to knock me out, but I also didn't drink enough to get sick. Might as well test out Haymitch's theory and try getting to sleep. I push my chair away from the table, ready to leave, when Haymitch speaks up suddenly.

"Is this the part where you yell at me?"

I freeze in place. "What?"

He pauses before he replies, waiting for me to say something else. There's nothing to say. "You mean that gimpy kid didn't rat me out?"

I roll my eyes at his insult. "Peeta said you had something to feel guilty about."

Haymitch runs a hand through his hair. It sticks up because of the days' worth of grease. You can take a pig out of the slop yard and so on and so forth.

"We got into it during a meeting with the powers that be," he explains quickly. "He had a…episode or something because of some things I said."

"You…," I stumble as I search for the correct word. "_Provoked _a panic attack?"

The stricken look on his face startles me. He quickly recovers his typical surliness. "Don't start. My ears are still ringing from the screeching I heard from your mother," he complains.

_My mother?_

"I'm very sorry," Haymitch apologizes, but in the way a bratty six year old might so it doesn't sound at all sincere.

My mind is still stuck on the revelation that my mother "screeched" at Haymitch over this. When my mother is upset she doesn't explode. She keeps it all inside. Yet she came to Peeta's defense when I wasn't here to take care of him. I'm unsure of how to react to her behavior. Happy hour with Haymitch isn't the time to be processing this anyway. "Since you confessed, you must be sincere, or you're completely trashed," I say begrudgingly.

"I guess you'll never know," he says with a tip of his flask.

"Is that the reason you called?" I ask abruptly. Haymitch's flask pauses at his mouth. Calling us while we were in the Capitol was incredibly dangerous. Though it may have made the difference in our escape.

Haymitch lowers his hands to his lap. "Peeta…you…," he stammers. His voice is a bit slurred, but his struggle to speak comes from something other than inebriation. It's hard for him to speak the truth when it's not veiled in some kind of insult. "Both of you don't deserve…_this_," he says vaguely.

Peeta's prognosis has not changed. The procedure of drawing out his blood, removing waste and water, and returning it to his body makes him feel better somehow. That's what he tells me. I don't know if he's lying. I stayed with him the last time they performed it. I tried to hide my squeamishness, but it read all over my face, and I'm afraid Peeta was comforting me more than I was comforting him. Haymitch is right about Peeta. He doesn't deserve to die this way.

I stand up slowly, the exhaustion and the drink finally having an effect on my muscles. I don't want to be here anymore. I need to get back.

"Then again, none of us deserves this shit," he murmurs, always a poet.

"Snow does," I answer, my voice tight.

It isn't a joke, but Haymitch laughs. "Can't argue with you there, sweetheart."

* * *

"Where are we going today?" I ask through a yawn. Running on a few hours of sleep is difficult, but I'll have more opportunities to rest when Peeta does. For now, I'm trying to be as cheerful as possible for his sake.

"Outside. In the fresh air and the sunshine," Peeta gripes lowly. I share in his desire to escape the underground prison. Hell, everyone feels that way. Any minute now we could hear word of surrender and then we would be free to go wherever we liked. For now, it's not a possibility.

"Okay. Now let's have the realistic answer," I snap back. Peeta may be in very poor physical condition, but his verbal skills are just fine. And he wouldn't be so cranky if he knew what I went through to have us take this walk. The nurse wanted to put an end to our excursions, but I couldn't do that to him. It's the only chance he has to get out of that room. The nurse insisted it was dangerous to have him away from the hospital if something were to happen, even more dangerous if _I_ am the only person with him. I had to promise this would be the last time.

Peeta is oblivious to this, and huffs like a child. Person after person rush by us with notes or general expressions of alarm. The compound is busier than I have ever seen it. People look for ways to keep active. It distracts them from the stress of the waiting. Peeta and I usually get about an hour to ourselves before Shell comes around telling us to get back to our room. She'll probably find us earlier today. She always does find us, too. No matter where we are. It's impossible to hide from the moles in their own hole.

"Where has Gale been? I haven't had the opportunity to harass him since you got back."

_Like I said, verbal skills are fine._

"I haven't seen him in a few days either." Not since that day when I encouraged him to talk to Madge. He never did let me know how it went. I can only assume that's because it didn't go the way he hoped.

There are three places Gale is likely to be: in the barracks, the training area, or the conference room. Oh, and the dining hall, but it's not lunchtime yet. "If I had to guess, I'd say he's in the training area."

We travel through the winding tunnels toward what is now the most chaotic part in the compound. The training area is one of the only places in the Underground that doesn't feel claustrophobic. The large open space and tall ceilings provide plenty of room to run and jump and do whatever is required for army training. However, that isn't the case today. Hundreds of people dressed in dark green and black uniforms fill up the space beyond capacity. Although they're dressed for the part, these people aren't soldiers. They're relief workers that will be sent in once it's safe to leave Thirteen. Some groups are running drills, others appear to be receiving medic training, and others are using machines to move boxed up supplies from one place to another. The noise of orders being shouted back and forth and machines moving reverberates against the high metal ceilings.

It's difficult to differentiate one person from another when they're all dressed the same. I give up looking for Gale, and search for a ranking official who's likely to know where Gale is. I notice a group of nervous-looking kids whose uniforms are too clean—most of them couldn't be much older than me—surrounding a man who is issuing instructions. I recognize Shepherd immediately with his trimmed haircut and sweaty forehead. He runs everywhere he goes. Captain Shepherd is serious and businesslike as he talks to the recruits, but when he notices Peeta and me pushing our way through, he smiles and gestures for the soldiers to step aside so we can get through.

"Hey! My sharp shooter decided to pay me a visit," Shepherd says jovially. He's always been impressed with my shooting ability and has asked me several times to hold lessons, particularly for soldiers like those surrounding us who are made nervous by the sounds of gunfire. I never took him up on it. "And you brought me a recruit," he adds with a nod toward Peeta. A genuine smile spreads across his somewhat disfigured face. Shepherd received a nasty wound to the right side of his face during the riots in Eight. There's a bad scar across his eye where it healed. The mark makes him intimidating and frightens people who haven't seen it before, but Shepherd isn't bitter. Like so many, he uses humor to cope with his losses.

Under better circumstances, Peeta would appreciate the jokes. "Wow, you guys must really be hard up for volunteers if you want me," Peeta says gruffly. Shepherd's smile morphs into a straight line.

"Shepherd, we're looking for Gale. Have you seen him?" I interrupt.

"Yes ma'am. I had him supervising the organization of the supply packs for the hovercrafts. Room 23B. He should be done by now," Shepherd explains.

I say a quick thank you and set Peeta and me on our way. Hopefully, if Peeta can throw insults at Gale for ten minutes he'll cleanse himself of the bad mood he's in.

I push Peeta into the adjacent room Shepherd directed us to. I expect the room to be bustling with activity, but there's nothing but row after row of the same crates that were being moved around in the big room. The idea is that Thirteen will give away all of the supplies it has left. It's an extreme gesture of generosity considering how economical the people here are. Nevertheless, the districts have lost a substantial amount of resources after destroying their own factories and crops in order to starve the Capitol. And once the war is over, Thirteen won't need the supplies, unless some people decide to stay, and I doubt anyone wants to.

"Gale?" I call out. No one answers. He and the other workers must have finished their task like Shepherd said. I start pulling Peeta backwards when he lifts up his hand to get my attention.

"Wait," he says. "Let's look around." Peeta points down a gap in the rows of boxes where an aisle has been made so people can get through. I sigh and roll him forward again. Just when I thought the Underground couldn't be more monotonous we're walking through a room full of crates.

As we walk by the seventh row, I glance one way and Peeta looks the other. I see nothing by the steel gray wall in the distance. Suddenly, Peeta grabs the wheels of the chair, halting his forward motion, and causing me to bump right into the back of his chair. I make a noise to ask why he stopped us when out of the corner of my eye I see movement. My muscles tense up as I quickly jerk my head around. Even as a hunter, it takes my brain several moments to absorb what I'm seeing. Then again, I've never seen anything like this in the woods. I recognize Gale, even with most of his face hidden. What I have difficultly recognizing is the green and black clad person he has pinned against a wall of crates.

Somehow, my mouth understands the scene before my brain does. "Gale?" I croak.

Gale's head turns suddenly, his hair askew and his mouth hanging partially open. Barely peeking over the top of his raised elbow is a red-faced Madge. Now that I have all the pieces, I run the scene through my head again, and finally I understand what I was looking at: Gale and Madge…necking.

"Katniss!" Gale exhales before swallowing thickly.

"What's going on, guys?" Peeta pipes in with a playful lilt in his voice. This is exactly what he needed to raise his spirits—a chance to humiliate Gale.

Gale swiftly lowers his arms, sidesteps away from Madge, and roughly runs his hand through his hair in an attempt to smooth it down. He makes it stick up worse. "We were…uh…checking over the supplies for each district," he rattles off.

"And checking supplies includes sucking face?"

"Peeta," I say sternly. He is still acting like a child, only instead of cranky, now he's obnoxious. Gale glares at Peeta menacingly. Madge is all blonde hair and pink cheeks, fighting an embarrassed smile. "How's the arm feeling, Madge?" I cut in awkwardly.

Madge glances down at her injured arm which is safely secured in a sling. She only spent one day in the hospital wing. She wouldn't have spent any time there if the nurse hadn't insisted upon it. "Much better. They're making me keep it in a sling, but it doesn't hurt anymore," Madge says quietly.

"That's good," I say awkwardly. The conversation stalls after that. I stare at the handlebars on Peeta's chair because looking up at Gale and Madge brings a rush of heat to my face. Why am _I_ embarrassed? They were the ones who were caught.

"How are you feeling, Peeta?" Madge asks sweetly.

"Are you two together or what?" Peeta answers her question by segueing onto a different topic. Madge and Gale glance at one another. I wish I had a mirror or a camera so they could see what their faces look like right now. The blush on Madge's cheeks darkens and the corner of Gale's mouth sneaks up—like they're both in on a secret; a fairly obvious secret.

"Did you know Madge is going to be heading up the team that's going to District Eleven, you know, once we get word on the surrender?" Gale changes the subject yet again. The smiles will have to serve as an answer to Peeta's question. Oh, and the kissing.

"You're leading the entire team?" I ask Madge. It's a huge honor and responsibility. Just like the spies we dropped off in the Capitol, teams of people will be placed in each district to help the residents cope with the damage. It's people like Shepherd, or at one time, Dr. Holden, who were nominated to fulfill the positions of team leaders. Madge must be the youngest person chosen by far. Madge _has_ shown incredible growth since coming to Thirteen and leadership is in her blood.

"Yes. Gale nominated me for it. And for some reason, people agreed," Madge laughs. Gale rolls his eyes. Clearly, he thinks self-deprecation does not suit Madge, which is a very different attitude for him to have considering a week ago he was annoyed by her arrogance.

"That's incredible," I say in amazement. _Gale_ nominated her? According to Madge's humiliating story about the dropped rifle in the shooting range, Gale nominated her for that experience too, at a time when he believed she wasn't capable of it. This must be different. Madge isn't stupid enough to fall for it twice, and Gale isn't stupid enough to try. "You'll be great, Madge."

"And what are you going to do, Gale?" Peeta interjects.

Surprisingly, Gale doesn't scowl or tell Peeta it's none of his business. I keep forgetting that Gale and Peeta are friends now. "I'm still talking it over with my mom. I don't know much about farming, but it would be nice to be outside all day."

"So, it's Eleven for you, too?" Peeta asks in an annoyingly sweet voice.

I know I promised to be on my husband's side and everything, but does it count when he's being incredibly childish?

"You'll both be great," I interrupt.

Madge offers a grateful smile. "Thank you," she replies. "Now, we really do need to be getting back to work." She looks over at Gale and gestures for him to follow with a quick flick of her head. "Good to see you, Peeta." She pats his arm gently as she walks by. Gale grins, but also scratches his cheek with his middle finger. I don't think that was meant for me.

"Wow," Peeta muses when the last of their footsteps mixes with the echoes of noise coming from the big room. "The things you miss when you sleep for 15 hours a day."

I walk around the chair so Peeta can see me without craning his neck. "I missed it, too."

"You didn't know that was going on?"

"I didn't know exactly what was happening between them. Last I knew they had just learned how to be civil." _Must have been some talk._

"That was a little more than civil," he chuckles.

I scoff and move back behind the chair, grasp the handlebars, and start wheeling him out. "You just wanted to embarrass Gale," I accuse.

"I was trying to get them to confess to what was obvious," he defends. "Besides, Hawthorne earned it. I suffered through him whining like a girl for weeks over Madge. '_Madge_ knocked me down during combat training._ Madge_ made fun of my beard.' " Peeta shakes his head with disgust. "It was annoying."

I pause in between the crates for District Four and Five. "You _knew _he had feelings for Madge?"

"Not exactly. Everything he'd say was negative." Peeta twists around in his seat to face me. "I think he was still processing you and me for a while," he says seriously.

Peeta doesn't need to convince me of that. I already knew Gale was processing my relationship with Peeta up until the night we finally stopped giving each other the silent treatment and talked. That wasn't even a month ago. And already Gale is talking about following Madge to District Eleven? It's an incredibly huge decision to make after a relationship of barely three days.

There's a light touch on my hand. When I look down, Peeta's comforting fingers ghost over the white knuckles of my hand that's wrapped around the handlebar. When my hand relaxes I touch the top of his head and place a kiss there.

Before I completely berate Gale for his rash decisions I have to consider my own. It only took one talk with Gale to set our friendship on the right track again. It only took a day to convince myself I should marry Peeta. I can't tell Gale he's wrong. I'm in no place to judge.

"But he never shut up about that girl," Peeta scoffs as he twists back around. "All that fighting? What a ruse it was."

"A ruse?" I murmur, my fingers idly combing through his hair.

"Sure. For the all the unresolved sexual tension."

My hand stops. "Peeta," I scold. I do not want to think about their fights as unresolved sexual whatever. If I ever see them fight again I won't be able to get that thought out of my head.

"I'd say it's pretty well-resolved now."

"Enough," I beg. The truth is, much of that fighting was real, on Madge's end anyway. And if it was still real I could in no way support she and Gale having a relationship. However, the one thing that shows me that they've come to a healthy understanding is not the kissing; it's the fact that Gale nominated Madge for that leadership role. He actually sees the strength in her that was always there, even when Gale couldn't get past his prejudice. So in the end, Peeta is right. All the right things are resolved.

Things are still wild and noisy in the training room, so I get Peeta through as quickly as possible. It's getting close to the end of our free time and as much as Peeta likes to play Hide-and-Seek with Shell, I don't want to risk hurting him in any way by wearing him out. It's not until we're in the quiet halls of the hospital wing that either of us speaks.

"I don't think I'd make a good farmer," Peeta says sadly. "But every district needs a baker, right?"

Ever since I came back, Peeta has been playing his own little game with me. We pretend that his skin isn't pale, his eyes don't look tired, or his body isn't as weak as a newborn fawn. We pretend we're going to build the cabin we talked about. And now, we pretend we're going to go to District Eleven with Madge, Gale, and his family. I've tried to accept the illness that Peeta refuses to acknowledge, but he makes it so difficult when he keeps making plans that won't happen. I'm sick of pretending. I'm tired of being denied the things I want—the things Peeta wants.

Instead of offering a response, I quickly turn us around and head in the opposite direction from the hospital wing.

"What are you doing?" Peeta asks, bewildered. I've never deviated from his schedule, but I'm surprised he questions it since he's always badgering me to rebel.

I take us to a section of the compound beyond the dining hall and the kitchens—a place where very few people are allowed to go. I've only been here once, a month or so after the escape from the Quell when Haymitch was trying to get me out of my depression. There was a great deal more security then, but with so many people joining up with the relief volunteers, it isn't until we reach the entrance that we meet a tall, broad woman with mousy brown hair who guards the door. She immediately shakes her head and says, "No admittance."

"I won't steal anything. I just want to show my husband what it's like. He's never seen it," I plead. Peeta glances up at me with no idea as to what we're doing.

"No admittance," the woman repeats.

"This is Katniss Everdeen. The Mockingjay?" Peeta says like his words hold the keys to the kingdom.

In this case, they don't. The woman rolls her eyes. The moles could care less about the Mockingjay.

"Just for a minute. He won't get another chance to see it," I ask again. I notice Peeta's hands turn to fists. I regret using those words. I know how they must sound.

The woman absorbs the sad state of Peeta's wheelchair and pallid skin. She taps her fingers rapidly against her leg as she considers. She makes a face that says she already regrets what she's doing, and then punches in a code for the door lock. "One minute," the woman instructs.

After all the noise of the training room this space is miraculously quiet. We're standing on the edge of one of Thirteen's underground farms. The apple orchards. The lights are set to simulate late morning. They're so bright I need to blink several times to adjust. The warmth and the humidity are staggering after living in the cold hallways. This is possibly the only room in the Underground that is heated.

We wander in between the rows of trees. It's monotonous in its own way, but not the least bit boring. They've been picked clean of their fruit, so I don't understand what the point is to keeping them so heavily guarded. There's nothing to steal.

Peeta reaches out to touch the leaves of one of the trees and I pause. He leans back and closes his eyes, breathes in the closest thing there is to fresh air, and lets the artificial sun warm his skin. I do the same. I can smell the trees and swear I can hear the sound of the wind moving through the branches. I could just be imagining it.

"Fresh air and sunshine," he whispers. When I open my eyes, his remain closed. After all the pretending that he's not tired or in pain, this is the first time in days that I believe he's actually content. "Thank you."

* * *

"And then, just when I was about to tie the bell around her neck, she gets set on her legs and kicks me in the shoulder!" Prim crouches onto her knees as she enthusiastically reenacts the unfortunate scene with her goat. Prim's pets were usually even tempered around her, but animals are animals, and apparently her goat did not want to wear a bell.

"Lady did that?" Peeta laughs weakly, but his smile is sweet and the same, always the same. From his end of the bed, he sweeps his fingers across the bottom of my socked foot, tickling me. I'm propped up against the footboard on the opposite end. I respond by pulling on his precious toes tucked under a blanket. He jerks his foot back and crinkles his nose at me. He's been in a far better mood since our visit to the apple orchards. Shell wasn't happy about it. She never thought to look for us there because she never thought they'd let us through.

"Yes!" Prim shouts while rubbing the phantom pain from her shoulder. "It hurt like a son of a—"

"Prim!" my mother admonishes from the horseshoe chair. Everyone's jaw drops at Prim's almost curse. The phrase itself isn't so shocking; it's the fact that _she_ said it or almost said it that's outrageous. She apologizes by casting her eyes to the floor, but the way her teeth sink into the corner of her bottom lip makes the apology disingenuous. It's easy to guess where she picked up the unladylike language. That's the Hawthorne influence at its finest.

"Anyway," Prim says, easing herself out of the tense moment. "That's the reason my shoulder pops when I try to rotate it." She demonstrates this and her shoulder cracks right on cue, just like my mother's knees.

"Does it hurt?" Peeta asks while pressing his thumb into the arch of my foot. The sensation from the pressure surprises me to the point that I barely contain a moan. Artists have the best hands.

"No. It just makes a strange sound," Prim answers.

"Seems like Lady didn't like strange sounds either," Peeta muses, recalling what my sister was trying to do to Lady before the goat kicked her.

"She could have said so instead of kicking me."

"Your pets talked to you?"

"They had their ways," Prim says enigmatically. And of course, we all believe her, despite the chuckles from each of us.

Peeta asked me three days ago what he thought our future would be, and for whatever reason, I didn't picture this part. The family part. The part when my husband chats with his new mother and sister about childhood stories. Until now, I didn't envision Prim and my mother being involved in our marriage in any way. My relationship with Peeta has always been guarded and secret, but now it's the opposite. We're free to talk and laugh and adjust to having this new person in our family. I never predicted the fullness my heart would experience at seeing this kind of interaction. It's more than just Peeta or me being healed, it's all four of us. It fills up my chest with the same amount of warmth I felt standing under the artificial sunlight. Another little squeeze of my foot and I know Peeta feels the same.

"That's true. They did talk," I agree with my sister. "Prim's god-awful cat used to _hiss_ his distaste for me on a regular basis."

"Buttercup was a very loving creature. He was just particular," Prim says in defense of her ugly cat—ugly both in looks and personality. Maybe if I didn't try to drown him in that bucket he would have shown me some affection. "The only animals they have down here are chickens. The moles have never even seen a real live squirrel. Can you imagine?"

"Don't we eat meat other than chicken? Where does that come from?" Peeta questions. It's a question he's posed to the kitchen staff, but they always shove us off. The theories he's come up with are not pleasant.

My mother fields the answer. "It's not real meat. It's made from bean curd and fortified with protein."

"No wonder it tastes so terrible." Peeta makes a face and cringes. It makes Prim giggle. That giggle always makes me smile. I notice my mother smiles, too.

"I can't wait to have animals again," Prim says as she takes a seat on a pillow on the floor. She was going to snag a chair from the waiting area, but Peeta offered her one of his many pillows instead.

"You can have all the animals you want," I promise.

Prim's eyes sparkle, even in these caverns with limited light. "Can I have ducks? Pigs? A cow?" she asks excitedly.

"You can have a zoo."

"Prim, you should ask for a deer…or a bobcat," Peeta adds. He nudges me in the side of my thigh with his foot, smiling lazily at me.

"I want a fox!" Prim exclaims. Her eyes practically spin with ideas about her new menagerie.

"Alright, that's enough," my mother interrupts. "Prim has been getting plenty of the things she wants lately."

Prim shrugs her shoulders innocently like she has no idea what our mother is talking about. Prim in genuinely kind and sweet, and people have always been fond enough of her to be sweet in return. But it is interesting how well she's learned to work the system in Thirteen for her benefit. That Hawthorne influence is showing again. Gale isn't the only one who knows how to set snares.

"It's bedtime," my mother insists. She stands up and stretches the kinks from her back.

"Bedtime?" Prim whines. It's not late, barely past eight, but Peeta has been looking increasingly sleepy and he needs to rest. He has another procedure scheduled in the morning.

"For all of us," my mother says.

Prim jumps to her feet and scurries over to my side. "I didn't get a chance to ask about the wedding," she whines.

"What do you want to know, little duck?" I tuck her hair behind her ears. She's taken to wearing it down, except when she's working. It makes her look grown up. I imagine there's a particular fifteen year old boy who likes it that way.

"Not about your secret wedding. I wanted to know if you'd like a real wedding. With a dress and a cake and guests present." She explains the idea with the same enthusiasm she had when talking about her animals.

I look to Peeta, and although I'm not as lethargic as he is, our interest in the idea is the same. "Prim, we're already married."

"But I didn't get to see it," she moans in disappointment.

"It was hardly an event," I assure her. There was a great deal of crying and swearing to kill President Snow involved. It was not an event for guests.

"All the more reason to have another ceremony," Prim argues. "Everyone would be so excited. I'll even dress up Haymitch for you."

As entertaining as that visual might be, it's one I can live without. Thankfully, my mother intercedes on our behalf. She clasps her hands around Prim's shoulders and gently ushers her toward the door. "Prim, we'll talk about that some other time. It really is time for bed."

Prim pouts the entire walk from the bed to the door. Just before my mother leaves, I speak up. "Mom? Wait." I hop from the bed and immediately start wringing my hands together as I approach her. I drop them to my sides so I don't look so nervous. What I need to say has nothing on some of the other tough conversations I've had in this room. It's because I'm talking to _her_, and because she's done things I never would have expected from her, that I don't know what I'm doing. "I…I'm sorry that we didn't tell you right away," I state clearly. I mean the wedding, but then I remember what she found in our bedside table and realize I haven't talked to her about that either. "I'm sorry that I didn't…um…talk to you first. It just happened and—"

"Are you happy?" my mother interrupts.

I've been staring at the floor. I look up. Her face is so tired, beaten down from years of hardship, but she's not angry or hurt. She looks like she already knows my answer. I nod silently.

"I'm happy for you. He loves you very much," she whispers. She touches my braid that's hanging over my shoulder—reaching out to touch a piece of my childhood that I still wear.

"Thank you," I barely say above a whisper.

"You mean for yelling at Haymitch?" she murmurs. "That was long overdue."

We share in a laugh. That's part of what I mean. I don't know that she's truly changed. I don't expect her to take care of me. I wasn't sure I could trust her to take care of Peeta, but she did. I've held so much anger against her for so long, it's incredibly freeing to let go of some of that resentment.

"Goodnight." She kisses my cheek like she would when I was small. "Goodnight, sweetheart," she says sweetly toward Peeta.

When she's gone and the door is closed I slowly turn around and eye Peeta suspiciously. "Sweetheart?"

Peeta shrugs one shoulder, leaving me out of the loop. I don't think I like my mother and my husband being in cahoots together, but I don't push it. I turn the lights down and then go to the dresser to find my pajamas.

"Where are you going to find a fox for Prim?" Peeta asks.

I throw my long-sleeved shirt over my head in exchange for a tank top of the same color. "I don't think a wild fox would make a good pet. You shouldn't put ideas like that into Prim's head."

"I like putting ideas in her head. She still thinks that anything is possible."

"Doesn't mean you should spoil her."

"You told her she could have a zoo," he points out.

Responding to that will dig me a deeper hole. I decide to change the subject. "Speaking of pets, how did you end up with a turtle?" I remove my corduroy pants and toss them into the clothes hamper. It's almost full. It wasn't picked up yesterday like it usually is. Maybe the services are slacking off since we're all supposed to leave soon anyway.

"Hm?" Peeta hums distractedly.

As I peer over my shoulder, I note the way his eyes have glazed over. When I look back upon the pair of sleep pants in my hand I'm struck with a brash idea. I set them back in the dresser, gently close the drawer, and saunter back to my side of the bed. Peeta's tired eyes have a spark to them now. "In the letter you wrote? You said you had a turtle named Napoleon," I remind him. Peeta's eyes wander languidly up and down my half-dressed body. Seems I'm better at seduction than I originally thought. Like Peeta said, I needed to _not_ try.

"You found that, huh?"

"Mhm. Now, the turtle?" I ask for the third time.

Peeta scoots over to make room for me. I throw some unneeded pillows to the floor so we can lie all the way down. I snuggle in, somewhat comfortably. It's impossible to be completely comfortable in this bed, but Peeta's shoulder makes the best pillow. Almost instantly, a rush of gooseflesh covers my uncovered legs. It's not the best idea to sleep without pants in the cool room. Slowly, and perhaps reluctantly, Peeta pulls the blanket over the bottom half of my body.

"Rilee found him when he was ten," Peeta begins when everything that's distracting is warm and hidden. "He and Miche wanted to sneak into the woods, but I was too scared and wouldn't go. Rilee called me a wimp or something like that." It's amazing how wrong his brother could be. Peeta ended up being the bravest of them all. "Anyway, they left and an hour went by, and then another hour went by, and so much time passed I was sure they had been eaten by a bear and I kept debating whether or not I should tell my parents. Then finally, at dusk, they waltzed into the house like it was no big deal. They said it wasn't scary at all."

_Liars. _There is no way a ten and a twelve year old could go to the woods for the first time, alone, and not be scared. "Where does the turtle come in?"

"The turtle came in later that night when I got under the covers and something bit me on the ass."

Okay, so I might have laughed. "They put a turtle in your bed?"

"_Rilee_ put a turtle in my bed," Peeta firmly makes the distinction. "Miche put snails in my sock drawer."

I laugh again, even though Peeta has a sour look on his face. I'll never get enough of these stories. "Brothers are terrible. You should hear Gale's stories about the pranks his brothers play on him. Though I am impressed Miche and Rilee went into the woods and came out unscathed."

"Who knows if they actually went? They probably went to the park," Peeta says, finally with a small smile on his face. So I'm not the only person who didn't buy the brothers' story? "Anyway, my dad gave me a clear glass bowl to keep him in for a while. My mom wouldn't give up food to feed him, but I just gave him the vegetables from my dinner."

I have a very easy time imaging this. Peeta, as a young boy, tucking carrots and lettuce into his napkin to save for his pet. Prim used to do the same thing for Lady and Buttercup. I had to scold her multiple times. "You're always giving your food to unfortunate creatures," I say close to his ear. Who knew I could have so much in common with a turtle?

"So, you found my letter?" Peeta asks, turning his head to whisper against my hair. "What did you think of it?"

I carefully twist my body around on the narrow bed so I'm on my stomach, propped upon my elbows. "I think I told you I didn't want us to write letters," I tease. Peeta's eyes are half-closed and not the least bit sorry. I pull my knees under my body so I can kneel over him without crushing him. "However, thank you," I whisper before brushing my lips across his. The kiss feels like exhaling after holding my breath for a long time—as if it's more natural to be kissing him than it is to not be kissing him.

"Anytime," Peeta breathes back.

"I lost it," I blurt out. Peeta's eyebrows come together. "I mean, the letter got lost in the shuffle."

"I'll write you another one," he promises. His fingers trickle down my back until they linger on an exposed slice of skin between my tank top and the edge of my underwear. I was supposed to be the sexy one, and now I'm blushing.

"I'd rather you just tell me."

"What would you like to know?"

I abruptly sit back on my heels. "What exactly went on with Vesta Persons?"

Peeta snickers through his nose, throwing his hand over his eyes. "I knew I shouldn't have written that."

Do I really want to know the story of Peeta's first kiss? Well…yes. Peeta knows mine. I lightly pull his hand away and lean into him again. "Everything. I want everything," I sigh just as I lean down for another kiss. Our lips part this time. It's slow and quiet. We don't even move our hands. I like it this way, which may make it seem like we lack passion. It's not fast or raw like it was for Gale and Madge, who must get a thrill from sneaking off when they're supposed to be working. For us, kisses like that have always happened during times of distress, so to be hushed and gentle feels so much more powerful.

But only when I can ignore that fact that Peeta doesn't have the strength to kiss me any other way.

* * *

The room is too bright when I open my eyes. Or maybe it's not that bright. The lights are still on. I haven't slept for long enough That's what is screwing me up. I didn't turn off the lights completely before I fell asleep. Why am I awake?

Peeta. He's not there. Not where I left him. He's sitting up? For god's sake, why is _he_ awake?

"Peeta?" I ask groggily, my voice squeaks with sleepiness. I recognize the outline of his shoulders hunched over something. "What are you doing up?"

"Nothing. Go back to sleep," he replies quietly.

His lucid response tells me he's not having a nightmare or a panic attack. I push myself up with sleepy limbs, deliberately ignoring his words. "What are you doing?" I yawn. I rub my fingers over my eyes to push the sleep out and to lessen the burning to my pupils. Once the stars clear out from my vision I notice the drawing board on his lap and pencil in his hand. "Are you drawing?" I choke out.

Peeta hastily tries to set it aside. "Let's just go to sleep," he mumbles.

"What is it?" I yawn again. I scoot myself up closer to him and grab at the board he's trying to lean away from me. "Can I see?"

"It's nothing," he says, tilting it out of view.

I refuse to let go. "Please?"

We play a waiting game for several silent seconds. Eventually, he exhales dramatically; then relinquishes the board. I pull half of it into my lap. In the center of a piece of paper a fourth of the size of the board is a sketch of a little girl. Her long hair cascades over her shoulders in waves. She wears a sweet little jumper with a flower in one pocket. "Is it me?"

"Yes," Peeta responds automatically, his jaw tight.

I pull the board closer to the light so my body no longer casts a shadow over the drawing. If my memory of myself as a child serves me right she _kind of_ looks like me. The little girl could easily be mistaken for me, especially considering who the artist is. But I didn't wear my hair that way when I was a little girl. I liked to wear braids all the time. And there's something off about her face. "No it's not. It looks kind of like me, but something about the face is different." I stare at the image, trying to make sense of it. There's a roundness to her nose that I don't have, even when I was young. Peeta is too talented to make that mistake. When I look up, I see it. His nose. "Oh," I gasp.

Peeta pulls at his hair and clenches it in his fist. "You probably think I'm crazy."

Our daughter. He drew our daughter. The one we don't have. My fingers reach out and trace the delicate lines. They expect to feel the fuzzy fabric of her jumper or the baby softness of her long hair, but what I feel is the rough texture of the paper. It's not crazy. It's just not possible.

"Since we talked about it, I haven't been able to get her out of my head," Peeta admits sadly.

That stupid game we play. The constant pretending. It's messing with his head as much as it messes with mine. I don't know what is more dangerous. Continuing on with the game or accepting Peeta's situation. I don't want to face either option right now.

"You should sleep," I instruct tenderly. I try to take the board from him, but he holds tightly to it. His face crumples up like he's in pain. "Peeta? What's wrong?"

"I'm so sorry, Katniss," he hisses. His chest begins to heave in and out.

"Calm down," I say gently. "Lay back. You need to sleep." I wrench the board from his hands and let it slide off the bed, except I don't balance it correctly and it falls flat to the floor with a harsh _smack_ that startles me. Regrouping my nerves, I put my hands on Peeta's shoulders to try to ease him back. He grabs my wrists with more force than I expect given his weakened state.

Frightened by the heavy pattern of his breathing, I keep completely still. Is it another panic attack? What set him off this time? Was it…me? I was just trying to…to…hold him down. Panic hits my stomach with a swift punch. I search for the words Finnick instructed me to use, but it all turns to mush in my mouth.

I carefully watch his face for changes. The wrinkles on his forehead and the tightness of his jaw are frozen for what feels like eternity. Then slowly, in small increments, Peeta's grip on my wrists slackens, as does the intensity of his breathing. When the room is quiet, my hands resting in his lap, I release a huge breath of relief.

"Katniss," he whispers, his voice tired and shaky. "I'm sorry."

This time I don't test him. He has something to say. I need to let him say it. "Sorry for what?"

"When I was in the Capitol, when I was coherent enough to think, I believed I was going to die there."

_Please stop. Don't start this. This feels like something we can never take back_.

"I believed I wouldn't see you again. We'd never have a life together," he continues. He laces his fingers with mine and squeezes them, as if reassuring himself that he's here and not in the Capitol. "But after I was rescued and I learned that you wanted me, after I was improving and getting better…we were winning the war…we got married…I thought…I hoped." The words tumble out abstractly, his voice strained with anguish. "I'm so sorry, Katniss," he repeats.

"You have nothing to be sorry for," I say so quickly the words run together. "This isn't something we can control."

"I know I keep talking about the future and it hurts you, and I'm sorry," he rasps. "I just…I don't want it to be over. I want to keep my promise to you. Spend the rest of my life with you."

My hands reach for his face. I bring us together so our foreheads touch. His hands press over the tops of mine. "I want that, too." I don't point out that he is spending the rest of his life with me. _The rest_ was not supposed to be limited to a few short weeks.

"I want to be with you; be here for you. I want us. I want…" He pauses, sucking in a breath through his teeth. "_Her_."

I barely catch the word as it couples with a sob. Peeta's hands fall to the bed. I gather him against my chest and lay us down. He fights the tears and the strain they put on his chest. I know the chest clenching feeling well. I know how much it hurts to hold back when all your body wants to do is cry. I want to tell him he can let go, if he wants to. I could take care of him. He's done so for me so many times.

"Katniss, I need you to know—"

"Stop," I say unexpectedly, to the point of surprising myself. Peeta cringes in my arms. I know this speech. I've heard it before. In the caves. On the beach. Before I left…

"Let me say this. Please," he pleads, his voice slightly more steady.

"I don't want to have this conversation anymore. How many times have we done this to each other? No more. I can't take it." My words are entirely selfish. How can I deny Peeta his goodbye? He's fought harder than anyone to pretend. I should be proud he has accepted his prognosis. All I feel is incredibly sick to my stomach.

"So you'd rather pretend than say goodbye?" Peeta's hot breath fans over my skin.

"I'm not pretending," I say. It's only a partial lie. Part of me believes we're going to have all the things we talked about or I wouldn't have to keep reminding myself that it's not going to happen. There is a small chance. If we could safely get into the Capitol we could find someone there to help us. Dr. Holden said certain people were warned. And I think there's a large part of Peeta that wants me to believe in that chance.

"I love you," I whisper. This isn't a lie at all.

"I love you. So much," he murmurs, placing slow, sleepy kisses on my chest. "I wish I could have made love to you again." He tries to work up my neck, but he's too exhausted to continue. His head falls to the pillow before he reaches my ear. "Not again," he amends. "A thousand times."

A trembling breath escapes my throat. As much as I want him kissing me, touching me, he can't. His weight on my body begins to feel heavy, but I don't push him away. I turn my head and find his eyes are closed. His chest rises and falls evenly. "Remember that promise you made in the Games? The one when you promised not to die?"

"I remember," he mumbles.

"Say it again."

"You didn't believe me."

He's right. I didn't believe him. That's why I ran to the Cornucopia to save him. I'd do it again. "If you say it, I'll believe you."

"I'll always be with you," he offers.

We never officially called it off, but I can't help feeling like the game is over.

* * *

A noise awakens me for the second time tonight. A knock. A loud, irritating knock that gets louder and more irritating the longer I take to answer it. And I thought last night was a rough night for sleeping. Why don't they just walk in? The door has never stopped people before.

Peeta's unconscious body is deadweight on top of me. A groan of effort escapes when I push him off me just enough to slide off the bed. A disorienting head rush hits me when my toes touch the floor. Peeta continues to sleep soundly. He must be in that state of sleep when even a loud band couldn't wake a person up.

I take a few unsteady steps toward the door when I notice the cold draft floating up my legs. I don't have any damn pants on and that knocking won't stop until I answer it. Impatient and cranky, I ignore my lack of pants and reach for the door. If it's the nurse or my mother, they've seen me in less anyway. I pull open the door, but stand partially behind it.

"Gale?" I croak when I recognize his face. "Knock it off. Peeta is sleeping." _I was sleeping. _

Gale says nothing. Just stands there with a distressed look of concern on his face. I think maybe he's seen my lack of clothing, but I don't know how he could with most of my body hidden by the door.

Why is he even here? He already knows I don't attend meetings. There's only one announcement I care about. Wait…could it be? "Gale, what is it? Is it Snow? Has he surrendered?

Gale clenches his hands into fists. He pulls back his emotion and smoothes out his expression. "There isn't going to be a surrender. Snow is coming here."


	16. Prognosis

A/N: Apologies for the absurd wait on this chapter. And now bad news (good news?) this isn't the last chapter. The ending is going to be a bit stretched out from what was originally in my outline. More notes at the bottom.

Since it has been some time,** TO RECAP**: Katniss and her crew returned to Thirteen from the Capitol after having destroyed a hospital, making victory for the rebellion a near certainty. Peeta's health deteriorated significantly and his chances of survival became very slim without Capitol technology. After a rocky start—and a bullet wound—Gale and Madge seemed to have talked through their animosity, and begun something new. Finally, after months of battles and bloodshed, the rebellion was waiting impatiently for President Snow to surrender. However, it appeared that the Capitol and Snow will not go down without a fight.

**Prognosis **

_Moments prior…_

_Gale says nothing. Just stands there with a distressed look of concern on his face. I think maybe he's seen my lack of clothing, but I don't know how he could with most of my body hidden by the door. _

_Why is he even here? He already knows I don't attend meetings. There's only one announcement I care about. Wait…could it be? "Gale, what is it? Is it Snow? Has he surrendered?" _

_ Gale clenches his hands into fists. He pulls back his emotion and smoothes out his expression. "There isn't going to be a surrender. Snow is coming here." _

* * *

Move. Need to move. Immediately. Wheelchair. Elevator. Blankets. Then elevator. Wake up. Wake up. Wake up!

_Stop. _

_Think._

_Wake up!_

Peeta groans in protest against my attempts to rouse him. He looks painfully unwilling, and possibly unable, to awaken. I regret handling him so roughly, but lack the time to coax him gently. "Gale! Help me?" I plead as I shove at Peeta's shoulder again and again. I need Gale's assistance moving Peeta into the wheelchair since he is on the cusp of consciousness and very little help.

Much to my irritation, Gale attaches himself to the doorframe. "I can't," he mutters with his eyes cast downward.

"Why not?" I bark.

His chin nearly touches his chest. "Because you're half dressed," he mumbles.

I peek down at my skinny, uncovered legs. Instinctively, I pull at the hem of my tank top to cover myself, but Gale's already seen everything there is to see. "Oh hell!" I stammer through my clenched jaw. I knew this sleeping ensemble was a bad idea from the start, but I'm too panicked to be truly embarrassed. "You get him into the chair. I'll get dressed." I scurry over to the dresser and grab the first pair of pants I find.

Gale lines himself along the bed as Peeta limply moans at the activity of the room and the random noise from the hallway. I catch a glimpse of a pair of people in District 13 uniforms jogging past the open door, ushering patients down the hall. Suddenly, a crying baby joins the scuffling of boots and random shouting. The echo of panic in the normally quiet hallway sends a shiver down my back.

Meanwhile, Gale brusquely shakes a barely alert Peeta. "Okay. Come on, sweet cakes. Rise and shine," he says with mock cheerfulness. Peeta grumbles something I don't catch.

"What did he say?" I ask while buttoning my pants.

"You don't want me to repeat it," Gale says. Peeta grunts. "Fine, we'll do it the hard way." Gale forcefully, yet smoothly, pulls Peeta into a sitting position, then takes hold of Peeta under his arms and legs, like he would for Posy or Vick after they skinned their knees. "Hold the chair steady, would you?"

I hurry back to them, grabbing the handlebars and keeping Peeta's wheelchair still as Gale successfully settles Peeta into it. Other than some hoarse murmuring Peeta does nothing to object. There was a time when Peeta weighed enough that that such a maneuver would have been difficult, even for Gale. That isn't the case now. I take a quilt from our bed and tuck it around Peeta's knees. He leans his head into his hands and tries to rub the lingering sleep from his eyes. "What's going on?" he says through a cough.

"We're moving somewhere safe," I reply shakily.

"Why?" Peeta grunts.

I look up at Gale. His hands are steady whereas mine are trembling. He's had more time to absorb the information. I try to hide my shaking hands by snatching a sheet from the bed and placing it around his shoulders. After last night's, or this morning's, breakdown, how can I stand to deliver _more_ dire news? The kind of news that makes the cabin, the porch swing, and the drawing of our daughter more of a fantasy than it already is.

"Snow finally spoke up," Gale says on my behalf.

I look down and realize neither Peeta nor I am wearing shoes. We should have shoes. Peeta will probably make a joke out of it, seeing as he doesn't walk much right now. I find his seldom worn leather boots tucked under the bed. They'll look odd paired with his pajamas; however, I decide to use them anyway. I don't know what kind of protection we might need from here on out, and Peeta might needs something sturdy or at least warmer than slippers. Right foot first with a double knot, because that's how Peeta always puts on his shoes.

"And instead of surrendering," Gale continues, "he decided to drop in."

"Snow knows about Thirteen?" Peeta gapes.

I locate my own boots, trying to think one step ahead of the conversation. Yes, Snow is coming here, and he won't come alone. His resources have been significantly depleted in the last year, but he still has bombs. Now he has a target.

I sit on the now stripped bed as I tie my boots. I don't usually double-knot my laces, but there's something oddly comforting about doing so on this bleak morning.

"Not only does he know," Gale replies. "But he pooled every remaining firebomb-dropping hovercraft he's got, which is why we're currently in evacuation mode."

Peeta, barely able to hold his head up, stares at me sadly; the defeat in his eyes breaks my heart. To have come so far, only to have history repeat itself, is crushing.

"Where are we being evacuated to?" Peeta asks quietly, his voice surprisingly calm. I scan the room for anything else we might need, but all we have in this room is emergency candles and Peeta's drawing tools. Poorly equipped for battle.

"There are mine shafts underneath the compound left from the old days. It should be far enough below the surface to provide protection," Gale explains to Peeta. I vaguely recall learning of the mine shafts during some refugee orientation that was recited to me while I was recovering from my injuries in the Quell.

"_Should be?_" Peeta wonders aloud. "What exactly are the chances of it caving in?"

"We'll find out very soon," Gale says grimly.

The sound of the crying baby I heard earlier steadily grows louder as he and the mother approach the doorway. Mother and baby rush by in a blur, but not before I note the mother's expression of terror.

"I have to find my mother," I say without thinking. Although it's very early in the morning, before sunrise on the surface, she would have immediately gone to help the sick and infirm before protecting herself. Knowing Prim, she probably did the very same. There might not be enough time to find them and get Peeta to safety. I need another option. For once, the rebellion's forces have provided me with one. "Gale, you take Peeta down to the mine. I'll make sure the wing is empty." That will take care of Peeta and Gale and then I can—

"I'm the commanding officer here." Gale snaps, clearly put off by my order.

_Commanding officer? Try Mockingjay._

He pushes Peeta toward me like a bargaining chip. Peeta scowls unappreciatively at the gesture. "You and Peeta go to the elevator immediately," he commands, releasing the wheelchair's handlebars.

"I need to make sure my mother and Prim are safe," I insist.

"I don't have time to argue with you, Catnip. You don't get to be the hero today."

My hands involuntarily form fists ready to retaliate. This situation has nothing to do with me playing the part of the hero. I'm trying to protect my family, Gale included. Unfortunately, he easily recognizes my ploy, as it is something he would try to pull over on me if he were in my place.

"Go to the elevator now. I can't waste time worrying about you, okay?" he says seriously.

I open my mouth to object—I would much rather be doing something to help with the evacuation effort as opposed to sitting in the mines worrying about my family—when I feel Peeta's hand clasp around my tight fist. His hair is mussed from sleep and his eyes are red from a lack of it. I'm suddenly swept up in memory of our whispered vows, specifically when I promised not to leave him again. I did not intend to break this promise, but the well-ingrained urge to look after my mother and sister's safety is difficult to ignore. Putting faith in the belief that they will look after themselves is an even greater challenge. "Fine," I finally utter, squeezing my fist so hard my short nails cut into my palms. "You'll hurry, won't you?"

Gale nods curtly. It's not as if he has another option. He carefully watches as I step behind Peeta, take hold of the handlebars, and hurriedly move us out the door and into the flow of traffic. "Save me a spot!" Gale yells. He tears down in the opposite direction of the elevator, making sure every person evacuates before ensuring his own safety. Fear trickles down my spine. What if he doesn't make it in time? What of Madge? What of Prim and my mother? The only person I have any knowledge of is Peeta. And I have to say a quick prayer of thanks for that. Nearly every time I take my eyes off Peeta he ends up injured or captured. Although I'm wracked with stress, with Peeta in his current state I have no choice but to get him to safety. Maybe once he's settled I'll be able to go back for Prim and my mother.

The traffic of people is sparse coming out of the hospital wing, but when we reach the barracks the crackle of panic is rampant as is the organization of the evacuation. The entire population of Thirteen plus the refugees scale over one another like a group of Seam kids grabbing at a loaf of fresh bread. The soldiers ask that we stay quiet and calm, but they're difficult to hear over screams of confusion and alarm that ring out on every side. The remaining soldiers in District 13 aren't exactly the rebellion's finest either. The strongest have already been sent to other districts to quell the riots. What remains in Thirteen are the young, barely trained, and never meant to see battle.

An older man who forgot to put on his shoes cuts in front of Peeta. A moment later a couple holding hands trip over the wheels of the chair without sparing Peeta a second glance. I push Peeta's head down into his lap to prevent anyone from elbowing him in the face. I could easily snake through the crowd if I was alone, but cutting around people with the cumbersome wheelchair is nearly impossible. Afraid of being knocked down, or worse, I abruptly direct us toward an open threshold of an empty conference room where I tuck Peeta away from the mass of people. I put my body in between them and us to protect him from the crazed assaults of passersby.

"Do they know?" Peeta asks, his voice muffled by the blanket over his shoulders.

I shake my head rapidly, unable to believe Haymitch and Plutarch would incite such chaos on purpose by telling people the reason for the evacuation. Then again, they've been hiding here for seventy-five years fearing they would be destroyed like the former district. Perhaps they don't need to be told the truth of the situation. The fact that we're being forced to evacuate is enough to trigger their worst fears.

The morning lights kick on with a pop, causing dozens of people to jump and a few to shriek. It's strange to see the building take on its routine when it's possible it could be destroyed in mere hours, mere minutes.

From where I'm standing, I can see a bulk of restless people clambering in front of the elevator doors. It's obviously loaded with too much weight, but no one cares that they're testing the limits of the elevator cables. Peeta and I have no choice but to try for the elevator, though we risk being trampled.

"Katniss! Peeta!" someone shouts from somewhere further up in the chaos. Profanities are muttered by refugees who are shoved aside to clear the way for a short girl, not dressed in uniform, but with eyes as intense as any soldier.

Peeta perks his head up at the calling of his name. "Shell?" he croaks.

"What are you doing back here?" she screeches to be heard over the crowd. "Does no one have common sense?" She shakes her head with disgust. "Stay close!" While Shell is aptly concerned with the welfare of the sick she doesn't seem to give much thought to those in good health. She unapologetically shoves stubborn refugees aside clearing out a path for Peeta and me to get by. Several people object, even after they see it's a crippled man coming through. In fact, I think that causes them to object even more. It's a deep survivor's instinct they're responding to. Why should the wellbeing of the ill be put ahead the wellbeing of the strong and able-bodied? And while that attitude may be embedded into their minds, as Prim or my mother or even Shell would say, in a civilized society, the right thing is to take special consideration for those in need. Luckily for us, Shell also has a "take no prisoners" attitude to go along with it.

Within seconds of Shell finding us we're standing at the open elevator doors with just enough room for Peeta and me, but only after Shell compels two grown men to give up their spot with a violent threat I believe she would made good on. I look gratefully to Shell. "Thank you," I say over the grumblings of the people whose spot we've taken.

"Keep working on that limp, Peeta," she calls out. I'm sure Peeta would have laughed were the situation not so terrifying. With a playful salute Shell disappears amongst the crowd to rescue more unfortunate souls.

The doors of the elevator draw closed with a groan and finally a snap. The muffled screams peter out as the steel box begins to rattle downwards. The drop continues on and on. Thirty seconds. Then a full minute. Then two. How far below could these mines be? I fight off every memory of the mines in Twelve, but cold dread washes over me regardless. I've been living underground for months, but there's something about four walls and plumbing that makes one forget. Being in this semi-dark, clattering, ten by ten box, pushed up against a large sweaty man, while a child whimpers somewhere in the corner stirs up more panic in me than anything else that has happened tonight.

Peeta blindly reaches over his shoulder, feeling around until he finds my hand, then he grasps it tightly. The touch doesn't remove the memories, but it does force me to focus on him and the somewhat backwards hope that the mines will provide us protection.

The painful ride ends with an ironically playful _ping _sound. When the doors open, blinding bright circles of light shine into my eyes.

"Follow the line! Take a seat at the first open space available!" a soldier orders gruffly—one of the only soldiers to have found an authoritative voice in this mess of an evacuation.

I push forward, heedless of the right direction; my eyesight peppered with lingering spots after having lights shined in my eyes. My eyesight fights to clear, but I quickly find there's nothing so see. Nothing but darkness, which is occasionally broken up by streams of light attached to helmets of the soldiers. It's quieter down here than it was in the compound—less shrieking. However, there's much more sniffling and intermittent sobbing. Mostly people's names.

The frigid, stale air coats my mouth. I taste dust. And somehow, the air moves, like a breeze. It's been days since I felt a breeze that wasn't blowing from a ventilation duct. I fail to see walls or a ceiling. The mine must be unfathomably vast, more of a cavern than a narrow mine shaft. Thankfully, the cavern floor has been smoothed out enough for Peeta's chair to move without too much difficulty.

The instructions we received from the soldier when exiting the elevator eventually become apparent. A narrow path has been left clear for newcomers traveling further and further into the mine until there is an open place to sit. I take a mental note of how many steps I've taken in hopes of making it easier for Prim and my mother to find us or for me to find my way back.

A stocky soldier waits at the end of the line. He directs to an open space off the side. I follow the yellow stream of light until I reach the dusty wall. The light abruptly disappears when the soldier looks in a different direction. A woman and her two children huddle near us. It's odd to be lumped in with the masses after being the Games caused me to lose my anonymity. Comforting, too. I'm not responsible for these people. The Mockingjay is, but right now the efforts of the Mockingjay aren't remotely useful.

Peeta leans his head into his hand; his shoulder slump with fatigue. We've been silent almost the entire journey. It wasn't because the soldiers ordered us to be quiet. What is there to say? Our efforts may have been for nothing. We may not see this war end. I've no desire to say those words aloud.

Still standing behind him, I touch his forehead. Warm, but not feverish. I fear removing the blankets. It's colder down here than it was in the compound. I slide my hand back and lightly scratch Peeta's scalp, hopefully combing down some of the mussed pieces of his hair. He sighs and slouches down further into his chair. A dank and dark mine shaft isn't safe for him. How can he survive down here when his prognosis while staying in the hospital is so doubtful? What is the likelihood that any of us will see the light of day again? The uncertainty makes my stomach feel like lead. I desperately wrap my arms around Peeta's weary shoulders and press my cheek against his. I try to hope I haven't ushered us into our own graves.

* * *

Prim is the one to find us. Clad in pajamas and slippers and carrying a flashlight she looks every bit the little girl I've taken care of for so many years; however, the way she slips through the crowd without fear reflects her recent maturity. Hard to believe this girl was afraid of her own shadow not so long ago.

"I was afraid you would be held up in the hospital wing," I say when she kneels down beside me. I throw my arm around her neck, being careful not to jostle Peeta. With effort from both of us Peeta and I finagled him to the cavern floor where he could lie down, using my lap as a pillow. I have my back against the wall of the cavern so I could keep watch. The line of people filing thinned out an hour ago—or so I estimate. A few lanterns have been scattered around though they provide very little illumination, enough to quiet the crowd. The shrieking stopped and faded into anxious whispering.

Prim leans back on her heels. "No." She sighs. "I _tried_ to get over there when the evacuation alarm went off, but I ran into some…uh…" she drifts off to look over her shoulder into the darkness. She exhales again, turns back, and remembers herself. "Interference," she finishes.

"Interference?" I wonder aloud. I suppose Peeta and I also ran into a great deal of "interference" while making our escape, but I never would have chosen that word to describe it. More like mayhem.

"Yeah…um…it was rough up there," Prim answers hastily. "Everyone was panicked, especially refugees who were forced out of their districts because of bombings."

Like she was. I've only begun to recognize my sister's maturity, but suddenly I'm filled with pride. This is the second time Prim's been in the face of such danger and she's handling it remarkably well. She's not amongst those falling to pieces, whimpering in the near darkness. The war has strengthened her, not broken her. The same can be said of Madge and Gale and Wing and Shell. I can't say if it's true of me.

Carefully, Prim steps over my outstretched legs, accommodating Peeta so he can see her without looking upside down. "How are you, big brother?" Prim asks with a sweet smile. She touches his forehead gently, feeling for a fever just like my mother would.

"Not bad, considering." Peeta manages a pained smile. Lying through his teeth no doubt. He coughs to clear the muck out of his throat. "Where did you get that flashlight?" he asks. While I didn't question it at first, I do wonder about the flashlight when Peeta brings it up. Flashlights run on batteries—a precious commodity in Thirteen. Generally the only people who are issued them are soldiers or people who work third shift.

Prim holds the light under her chin, accentuating her cheekbones and long blonde eyelashes. "I never reveal my sources," she says darkly. Prim becoming more grown up is one thing but this spy business makes me uncomfortable. We need to get out of this district before someone notices her talents and sends her into the field.

"Do you know where Mom is?" I ask quickly. I'm desperate to look for her or Gale or Madge or just about anyone who knows more than I do. Peeta even told me to search when he noticed my concern. However, I'm too afraid to leave Peeta alone with so many people surrounding us. Several of them have eyed his blankets. Apparently his celebrity doesn't go very far when the temperature is below sixty degrees.

"I haven't seen her yet, but I heard some soldiers say that the compound is fully evacuated," Prim explains. I have heard this as well from the whispers around me, but I wish more than anything I could hear it from Haymitch. Or more importantly, how any of this happened? The Capitol was on its last legs prior to our attack on the hospital. It was barely keeping control of the upper districts. How could Snow have gathered enough arms to send us into hiding?

"Have you decided on anymore animals to add to your zoo?" Peeta asks playfully of Prim.

_What a time to make lighthearted conversation._

Prim settles herself more comfortably on the dirty floor, folding her legs out in front of her. The amusement on her face is plain as day. "I have. Do you think it's possible to domesticate a lynx?"

Peeta chuckles. "About as likely as domesticating a fox I would imagine."

"I was afraid of that." Prim exhales in disappointment. She rolls the flashlight between her palms, sending a shaky column of light upward. For the first time, I think I catch a glimpse of the cavern ceiling. Some morbid part of me wants to know how far away the ceiling is in case it starts coming down on us.

"Gale says a fox wouldn't make a good pet," Prim laments.

"Probably wouldn't get along with your ducks and chickens."

"What if I had it from the time it was a cub?"

Very soon I will need to explain to Prim that the only way for her to have a fox cub is if I were to steal it from a fox mother. It will be hard to break this to her. I can picture her glassy eyes at the mere thought of it.

"I had Napoleon from the time he was a small turtle and he never harmed anyone; well, _me_ he bit once."

Prim giggles. The people near us cast nasty looks. It's too soon after the shock of the evacuation for laughter apparently. I scowl back. I didn't tell them to be quiet when they were wailing and moaning. My sister can laugh all she pleases.

"My fox will be as docile as Buttercup was," Prim declares.

Buttercup? Docile? Good thing her expectations aren't very high.

"I'll show Gale," Prim adds confidently.

The mention of Gale sends my mind back into distress mode. Where is Gale? It's been some time since we arrived and I haven't seen any sign of him. What I wouldn't give for a flashlight. Maybe if I ask Prim to tell me where she got hers I can—

Wait. Prim is_ here_. With me. Not with my mother, not with patients, and not with the person she's been spending most of her free time with.

"Did you come down here with the Hawthornes?" I inquire abruptly.

Prim's laugher cuts out with a small squeak. Her eyes widen and I witness a gulp travel down her throat. She's not quite ready for espionage yet. She hasn't grown out of the scared doe eyes.

"Yes," Prim responds quietly.

"Have you seen Gale?"

She offers a shallow nod. "I saw Madge, too," she says, her voice even smaller.

Prim's answers confound me. I should be relieved that my friends are safe and yet I'm more troubled that she didn't tell me this immediately. "Did he give you that flashlight? Did he tell you to look for us?" Not something I approve of Gale doing. And Gale knows that. He would never knowingly put Prim in danger. Not to mention Rory.

Prim busies herself by tucking Peeta's quilt firmly around his legs, averting her eyes. "Not exactly," she mumbles.

"Where are the Hawthornes? Where's Rory?" I ask. Prim refuses to look at me and if Peeta didn't have his head in my lap I would have my hands on her shoulders to demand answers. I feel a tug on my pant leg—Peeta—trying to get my attention, but I can't be derailed. I'm too wound up from worry and Prim, my own sister, won't tell me what's going on. "He let you walk around by yourself? Did Hazelle—"

"I took the flashlight, okay?" Prim interrupts sharply.

The woman sitting near us scoops up her children and scoots away. The conversation is louder than I realized. I attempt to piece together the scenario, but the parts don't fit. Prim has never done anything wrong…ever, as impossible as that might seem. Even as a baby she never had a tantrum. Or am I just remembering it that way? "You _stole_ Gale's flashlight?"

"I needed it so I could find you," she says tightly.

"That gives you no right to steal."

There's a sputtering cough below me. Peeta's covers his mouth with his fist to conceal his cough, but even in the darkness I see him smirking. I don't know if he's laughing at me or Prim, but I'm in the mood for neither.

Prim lifts her knees and hides her face against them. The light from the flashlight spears off into the crowd. Heads turn to follow the light just to have something to look at. "I couldn't stay there," she mumbles from behind her arms and legs.

"With the Hawthornes?" Prim spends more time with them than she does me. "What is going on?" I ask, exasperated.

"Nothing," she snaps, her head lifting up. "Do you want me to look for Mom? She's probably with some patients. She'll want to know where you are." Without a glance Prim stands up, takes a moment to wipe the debris from her backside, and steps off in the direction she came.

"Prim!" I shout, unable to move with Peeta in my lap. My voice lifts above the murmurs, which have stopped as we've become something more interesting than a ball of light to stare at.

Prim whips back around, accidently shining the flashlight directly in my eyes. "I'll be back soon. Where am I going to go?" she says with an irritated shrug.

I lean back against the cavern wall as she stomps off, legitimately slack jawed. My sister snapped at me. My sister stole. My sister is walking around an abandoned mine shaft like a soldier on a mission, alone. Why haven't I gone after her yet?

Something soft and slightly warm strokes the side of my face. Oh. Peeta. His fingers guide my chin down to see the genuine concern on his face.

"Do you want to follow her?" he asks softly.

I shake my head. Close my eyes. I_ can't_ go. And she doesn't want me to follow her.

"It's not like she stole his gun," Peeta muses. The corner of my mouth turns up unconsciously. His thumb skims over my lips carefully like he's touching something precious.

With my eyes still closed I release an exhausted sigh. Prim, Prim, Prim. It wasn't long ago that we talked in the dining hall, right after I found out she and Rory are a couple. She was so sweet and excited and sure, and she also understood my relationship with Peeta on a deeper level than I did. I remember being awed by how grown-up and intuitive she had become. No, she didn't steal a gun, as Peeta says, but she's disobedient and unpredictable. She's not herself. "I never thought I'd see my sister behave in a way that was anything but kind," I confess with disappointment. I haven't been there for her like I have in the past. I leaned on my mother and Hazelle and Rory to guide her. And maybe that was a mistake.

Peeta's fingers drift away. I open my eyes. I've adjusted to the darkness and read the pallid coloring of his skin. The strain in his eyes he's trying to disguise. "We all have a rebellious stage. _You_ certainly did," he teases.

The banter may have succeeded in lifting Prim's spirits, but it fails to distract me. I wish we were back in our room, as much as I'd grown to despise those gray walls I miss the privacy. "Are you okay?" I whisper, cupping my hands over his cheeks and leaning in to create a pretend cocoon for us.

"Prim just asked me that," Peeta groans in annoyance.

"Now tell me."

"I'm fine," he says slowly, deliberately, smoothing out his face as best he can to convince me of the lie.

"Are you in pain?"

"Katniss—"

"I should have gotten something before we came down here." Had I been thinking straight I would have stopped at the medical storage for morphling. Granted, I would have had to steal it. _Oh god._ No wonder Prim is lifting flashlights off of people.

"Katniss, stop. I'm fine. We'll be fine," he insists. _Quite a change from the conversation we had during the night when you were prepared to say a final goodbye_, I think grimly. However, I have to concede that arguing over this is pointless. We're trapped down here for the time being.

I lean back against the wall observing my fellow prisoners. Several people have taken Peeta's example and lay down to try and sleep. It must be nearing the time the first shift of people rouse for work, but with the evacuation everyone's sleep has been disrupted. I'm impressed by those who can sleep with a firebomb threat in action, but then again, the moles have lived with this threat for decades. It's not so different from every other morning.

The rough texture of the stone scratches the bare skin of my shoulders. It competes with the tingling sensation in my legs and backside from sitting in one position for so long for the greatest discomfort. I shift slightly, arch my back, and try to work the kinks out. Though what I really need to stand up and maybe run in place.

"Sometimes I forgot that we were living in leftover mine shafts," I whisper, trying not to disturb those around me. I glance down to see Peeta blinking rapidly at me, shaking out the sleep. Of course he's tired. He barely slept at all last night.

"Shell told me it goes on for miles. Deeper than the mines in Twelve," he says conversationally.

"In the last seventy-five years we probably caught up." I find strange humor in the notion that there is a competition between Shell's district and mine as to who has suffered through the most. Factor in how Thirteen has never had to take part in the Games and their position on that hierarchy is knocked down a few notches.

I relax one arm on Peeta's chest. He takes my hand and kisses my fingers. "Is it alright? Being down here?" he asks. How like him to think of the things that plague my nightmares, even now. I debate between compartmentalizing and pouring out my fears—something neither of us has fully succumbed to yet. How can I tell him that I've already considered that this place might become our tomb if the walls and the ceilings don't hold up against the President's bombs?

Peeta tucks the hand he kissed under the blanket. I shiver at the difference between the open air and the temperature under the blanket. Instead of confessing, I change the subject. Nothing could make me feel safe here anyway. "It's so cold down here. I didn't realize we had it so good up in the compound."

Peeta hugs my arm against his body. "You should have put on a long-sleeved shirt or something."

I was lucky to remember to put shoes on. "I'm dressing in full uniform when I go to bed from now on," I decide.

"Well, that's the most disappointing thing I've heard all morning," Peeta says, his face very serious.

"Shh!" I sputter, leaning over him again. Continuously, I'm shocked by the things he says. I wonder if that will ever change. "When Gale walked in, I was—"

"What do you mean, 'when Gale walked in'?"

"When he knocked and I…I didn't check…," I flounder, unwilling to rehash my ill-advised decision to open the door half-clothed. I wait for Peeta to indicate that he remembers and save me from explaining, but if his wrinkled, confused brow is any indication he was asleep when it happened and witnessed nothing. "Never mind," I mumble.

Peeta taps his fingers against the back of my hand. The wrinkles in his forehead deepen as he works through the haze of events. "Are you telling me that Gale saw you without—?"

"Shhh!" I hiss for the second time. My whole body cringes. Hopefully, he can't see me blush in the darkness. Peeta isn't blushing, that's for certain. He rivals Gale or me in the severity of his scowl. I hate to see it on him, especially over something so insignificant. I tenderly comb his hair away from his face and murmur, "don't be angry."

"As a husband I'm entitled to be upset over matters such as this," he responds tersely.

I scoff at his reaction. "The whole of Panem has seen you wearing nothing," I point out.

"The only person who was scandalized by seeing me naked was you. And you didn't even look."

I inwardly groan. There was certainly a turnaround on that. How did I go from being annoyed when people saw me as pure to being upset when people gossiped about how _not_ pure Peeta and I have been since we came here? I look around to see if anyone else is listening in on this conversation. People seem to have found more interest in sleeping than us, so I'm spared that embarrassment. This is a ridiculous conversation and Gale would agree with me. "Trust me, both Gale and I were focused on more pressing matters than him seeing me in my underwear," I say under my breath.

"He'd say different."

"He's with Madge now," I challenge.

"That doesn't make you any less beautiful."

My mouth snaps shut against further argument. He doesn't say it often, partially because I don't care for compliments, and partially because he doesn't have to. I see it in the way he looks at me, the way he _studies_ me before he sketches me. He knows everything there is to know about me. And still I'm stunned silent by the unpredictable things he says? If I had more time I would learn. I swear I would learn every truth there is to this man. At a loss for words, as I often am, I lean forward, ignoring the aches in my back and kiss him, gently, because he is very sick. He squeezes my hand with his remaining strength. I pull away. Kiss his nose, his weary eyes. "Are you tired?" I whisper, my face next to his.

Peeta sighs. Always so reluctant to admit defeat.

"You should sleep."

"How close are they?" he whispers, his voice rough.

"I don't know." There hasn't been much information shared. I have to find Haymitch. He answers my questions. Most of the time. And I need to know what it was that brought them here, especially if it's because of our phone call. If it's my fault. "I'll keep watch," I promise.

"It's kind of like being in the caves again," Peeta observes before closing his eyes.

A dark, cold cavern. The Capitol watching us. Peeta fighting a fatal infection. Imminent death.

A sharp tremor runs down my back. It's exactly like being in the caves again.

* * *

A/N: Okay, it's been…some time. Here's some stuff that has been going on.

Awhile back, I was interviewed by Silver Sniper from the blog, _So You Think You Can Write?_ I had a great time chatting with her. Endless thanks for the rec, Silver!

I've also been hard at work helping to run The Pearl Awards – a Hunger Games fanart and fanfiction awards. Nominees are posted and dying to be read. Check out my profile for linkage.

You may or may not have noticed my penname changed. It was KenoshaChick for a good six years and while it was a loyal pseudonym, it was time for us to part ways. My new penname and twitter handle: **holymfwickee**_._ If you would like to know the story behind it, you can ask, but if you figure it out, you'll be awesome. Cause really, it's not that interesting a story. ;)

I cannot repeat my thanks enough to Medea Smyke for pre-reading this chapter. I never could have made it this far without her beta work and encouragement!

So…to be continued.


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